


Five Times Newt And Hermann Kiss While They Are Drunk

by luceluceluceluce



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Developing Relationship, M/M, Sexual Tension and Confused Emotions: The Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luceluceluceluce/pseuds/luceluceluceluce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief timeline of the apocalypse from the perspective of a pair of nerds: a story of science, alcohol, and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out as a short oneshot.  
> Suddenly I'm ten thousand words in and their pants haven't even come off and I'm not quite sure what I'm doing with my life.
> 
> Major thanks to Sara, for wonderful edits and teaching me about grown-up things, and to DV, for making me love these dorks in the first place.

1.

 

Hermann, as a general rule, does not drink in excess. Certainly, he has let himself get to that fuzzy state of tipsy on some special occasions, but he hasn’t been really, fully, properly _sloshed_ since college.

Well. He supposes the time was bound to come eventually.

 

The day begins with the appearance of the largest kaiju yet. It’s spotted about 600 miles off the coast of Mexico, and Hermann and Newt- currently stationed in Sydney, far from harm’s way- find themselves sitting in the otherwise empty lab at 4am, hunched over screens as they wait for the data to begin pouring in.

When the numbers finally begin popping up on the live feeds, Hermann’s first reaction is disbelief. Certainly there’s an error.

Newt’s first reaction is to yell “holy shit!” and fall off of his chair.

 

“This one is so different from the others,” Newt babbles, once he has scrambled back into his seat. He looks hysterical, and Hermann isn’t sure if it’s horror or excitement. Likely both.

“The others already varied so much, but this one is… it’s like an entirely different _class,_ like all the others were Amphibia and suddenly this one’s a- a bird or something, holy shit, look at the _size of it’s head, Hermann, are you seeing this?_ ”

 

Hermann doesn’t bother replying. He’s been working with Newton Geiszler for over six months now, but he still isn’t quite sure how to react to the man.

The first six months had been a struggle. Hermann’s opinion of Newt had gone from dislike, to hatred, to serious contemplation of murder, and then to… well, still hatred. But a sustainable sort of hatred, the sort that, hopefully, _wouldn’t_ end with life in prison. Now it was the sort of hatred that mostly just resulted in shouting matches and the occasional piece of chalk thrown across the lab, and Hermann has to admit, the man is doing good research.

 

This time, however, Hermann wastes no time replying to Newt’s babbling. There are numbers to crunch, there is data to analyze. Hermann turns at once to his chalkboards, while Newt remains at the screens, maintaining a running commentary.

(On the one hand, it makes copying down the necessary data far more efficient. On the other hand, Hermann can barely think with Newt’s excited monologue as background noise.)

 “They’ve sent out Romeo Blue,” Newt calls. “Should intercept about 200 miles off the coast. Local towns being evacuated, _duh_ \- oh, they’ve got a name for the kaiju, too. Hardfall, isn’t that badass? Who names them anyway, I’ve never actually figured that out. Is it all one dude? Because he’s got a kind of flair, I should meet him. Or her. Holy shit, look, it has _armor._ It’s like a Portunoidea- more like a Pleocyemata, actually-”

“Either give me the numbers or be silent, Dr. Geiszler,” snaps Hermann- and, small mercies, Newt rattles them off.

Hermann slots the numbers in where they fit. He has come up with the equations himself over the past year and a half- he has equations to estimate the kaiju’s muscle mass, top velocity, the amount of damage it could feasibly do given the local population and infrastructure. He inserts the numbers like puzzle pieces, slowly forming a cohesive whole.

He marks down the results.

He looks it over, shakes his head, redoes the entire thing.

Factors in new data, tries it a third time.

Steps back.

“Well,” Hermann says, staring at the scrawling numbers across the board. He has the sudden urge to vomit. “Bollocks.”

Newt is suddenly at his elbow, staring at the board with squinted eyes. “What’s going on?” He asks after a moment, and Hermann can’t help but feel a hint of pride at the fact that Newt- despite his brilliance and his absurd amount of doctorates- still can’t decipher Hermann’s equations. However, his smugness can’t last in the face of the sobering numbers.

“I’ve double checked,” Hermann mutters. “I’ve triple checked- this kaiju is _enormous_ , Dr. Geiszler.”

“No shit,” Newt replies. “They’ve got a video feed on it now from one of the helicopters, it’s insane.”

“Yes, right,” Hermann agrees, nodding twitchily. “No jaeger has ever fought anything this large before. Nothing with armor like this, nothing this heavy. I’m… not sure that Romeo Blue will be victorious. In fact, I doubt that a single jaeger will be able to bring this particular kaiju down at all.”

Newt is silent for a long moment, which is a miracle in and of itself. When he speaks, it is slightly more high-pitched than usual.

“Romeo Blue’s never failed before, though. I mean, how exactly _not sure_ is _not sure_?”

Hermann pauses, forcing himself to go over the numbers one more time- even though he’s already sure, he already knows. “I would say Romeo Blue has less than a ten percent chance of victory, all things considered.” That’s being generous.

Newt hisses through his teeth, a reluctant noise.

“Shit.”

“Quite.”

Another beat of silence, and it’s Newt, of course, who speaks first.

“We gotta tell them.”

They rush to the screens together, Newt reaching the keyboard first. He smashes the buttons so frantically that Hermann is certain he’s going to mistype _something,_ but somehow the call goes through.

“Hello?”

Stacker Pentecost’s voice sounds as clipped and efficient as always. Hermann automatically stands a bit straighter.

Newt doesn’t bother with greetings. “You gotta send out another jaeger. Romeo can’t do it alone.”

Stacker gives a frustrated huff. Hermann supposes that he’s fairly busy at the moment. “Romeo Blue hasn’t even made contact with the kaiju yet, Dr. Geiszler.”

“I know, I know-“ Newt waves his hands in annoyance, even though nobody but Hermann is there to see it. “Hermann did math. He figured it- here, Herm, you talk to him.”

Newt scoots aside abruptly, and Hermann blinks in surprise before leaning toward the microphone input. “Marshall Pentecost, sir,” he says, suddenly nervous. “As you know, I have several proven equations for estimating the strength and abilities of both jaegers and kaiju. I could show you the math if you would like, sir, but it is over 99% accurate from what data we have as of this moment-”

Pentecost grunts in a way that Hermann takes to mean “get on with it.” Somewhere over his shoulder, Newt giggles.

“I have done the estimates on this latest kaiju, sir,” Hermann continues, stubbornly not looking at Newt. “It is significantly larger and stronger than anything a jaeger has faced before. It’s armor is also a factor, one I cannot determine very accurately as of now, but I have estimated Romeo Blue’s chance of victory to be below ten percent, sir. I believe that it would require at least a two jaeger team to efficiently combat Hardfall.”

There’s a long beat of silence, and for a moment Hermann is almost sure the call has been dropped. Finally, Pentecost sighs.

“I’m going to trust you on this, Dr. Gottlieb.”

Hermann resists the urge to slump with relief. “Thank you, sir.”

The connection is severed, and the lab is suddenly too quiet.

Less than a minute later, the feeds report that a second jaeger has been deployed.

“Good,” Newt says, back to scanning the incoming data. “That’ll be good, right?”

Hermann shrugs, his eyes fixed on the feeds. “It will be much better, in any case.”

As the pair of jaegers approach the kaiju, the data feeds are replaced with live-streaming helicopter footage. Hermann stands beside Newt, and they watch in silence, transfixed.

“It’s moments like these,” Newt declares, as they watch the jaegers and kaiju surge toward each other, “that I feel fucking useless.”

Hermann can’t help but agree.

 

The entire battle lasts almost four hours. It’s difficult to watch. Even with the two jaegers fighting in tandem, it’s a struggle- Hardfall’s armor renders it impervious to almost everything the jaegers send its way.

Finally, after what seems like an age, Hardship falls. Romeo Blue- battered, it’s left arm half torn off - fires on it’s fallen body thrice before it thrusts it’s fists into the air. It is a weary sort of victory.

Newt stares at the torn-apart carcass of the kaiju as if he wishes nothing more than to reach through the screen and grab it. Hermann exhales for what feels like the first time all day. Neither of them cheer, but both of them feel the relief in their bones.

The rest of the day is busy- the lab crew arrives, and they spend the next twelve hours working nonstop to classify and analyze the data the new kaiju has presented.

Around 8pm, a report comes in from Tokyo- they’ve put together a category system to help sort the kaiju. Hardship is the very first under the category three section. Hermann’s kaiju-predicting equations suggest it certainly won’t be the last.

Newt, of course, thinks the new categorizing system is dumb.

“It’s inconsistent! Just look at all of the ones they’ve clumped into category two, these are about as dissimilar as you can get!”

Hermann simply sorts his data neatly according to the new system, and carries on.

 

The flurry of activity doesn’t die down until past midnight, and the lab begins to empty again, one by one. Hermann wonders if he should be concerned about how frequently he and Newt end up the last ones left working. Hermann’s eyes sting with exhaustion and his leg is aching dully, but there is still work to be done before he can turn in. One more hour, he reasons with himself. After that, the rest can wait until tomorrow.

At that moment, Newt springs up from his work station on the other side of the lab. His back pops audibly. “I’ll be right back,” he half-shouts, before hurrying out the doors. Hermann blinks, but isn’t overly surprised. Newton is an anomaly in every possible way.

Newt returns half an hour later- slightly sweaty and smelling of motor oil- with a bottle of…

“Jäegermeister,” Hermann says flatly, as he surveys the bottle.

“In honor of the jaegers kicking even more ass than previously anticipated, and Hermann Gottlieb’s significant role in saving a fuckton of lives,” Newt says firmly, and thrusts the bottle at Hermann. “You made the original jaeger code, you came up with over half the program for the kaiju warning systems, and now you’ve predicted how many jaegers are required to match a kaiju. You should’ve celebrated your own brain, like, years ago, but I know for a fact you didn’t. So we’re gonna celebrate now.”

“You expect me to drink this… _poison,_ straight from the bottle?” Hermann gives Newt an exasperated stare. “We have work tomorrow. Perhaps that kind of behavior is to be expected of you, but not myself. No, thank you.”

Newt shakes his head firmly. “Dude. No. You’ve worked even longer hours than me, I don’t think you’ve even gone outside for a week. If you don’t drink this shit yourself I’m gonna pour it down your throat.”

After a long, slightly painful staring match, Hermann gives up.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Congratulations, Geiszler. You have driven me to drink.”

Newt snorts a laugh at that, and, gritting his teeth, Hermann tips back the bottle.

He swallows it quickly and holds back a grimace- he really is accustomed to drinking things a bit more, well, classy- but he can feel it travelling down his throat and pooling warmly in his stomach.

Newt takes the bottle from him and tips it back with gusto, and Hermann carefully doesn’t consider the ridiculous unsanitariness of it all, because he really does want a drink.

He is exhausted. His very bones feel worn down, his frustratingly limited body grating as he battles against its basic needs. The need for sleep, for food, for reprise. Hermann resents it.

Yet he does not dare stop even for a moment, because the only things standing between the kaiju and humanity’s fragile beating heart are a dozen robots and an underfunded military organization.

So Hermann tips the bottle back and savors the burn in his throat.

The going is only going to get tougher from here.

The numbers don’t lie.

 

It is nearly two in the morning.

Hermann isn’t exactly sure why they’re sitting on the floor rather than on chairs. There are plenty of chairs in the lab. There’s a chair about two inches away from his elbow, in fact, and he knows that because he has knocked said elbow against it three times now.

He takes another swig from the (now nearly empty) bottle of Jägermeister, and feels surprisingly content. Beside him, Newt is fiddling with his own shirtsleeves, rolling them up _just right_ so that his latest tattoos peek out from under the cloth. Hermann swears they’re multiplying.

He decides to say as much.

“Your tattoos are multiplying.”

Newt laughs in the too-loud manner of a drunk. Or maybe just in the manner of Newt. “And there are still more to come, my man.” He pauses then, a grin stretching his face slowly. “My man. My Her-mann. Holy shit, that’s hilarious. Why didn’t I think of this before?”

“Because it’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” Hermann suggests, but Newt ignores him.

“I’m gonna make you a name tag,” he insists. “Not right now, because that would involve getting off the floor, but eventually. It’s gonna happen.”

“I can barely wait,” Hermann replies, as Newt takes another long swig. He notes that Newt is responsible for significantly more than half of the missing liquid. Hermann is a good bit past tipsy himself, so Newton’s flushed face really shouldn’t be surprising.

“Did you know your nose gets incredibly red when you’re drunk?” Hermann asks.

“Did you know your face gets incredibly stupid, every day?” Newt retorts.

Hermann can’t help but laugh at that, because- well, because that was the stupidest comeback he’s ever heard. But he also laughs because he feels warm, and good, and just a little spinny. Newt laughs too, and then they’re both laughing, and Hermann says “I hate you,” but in a fond sort of way.

“I hate you too,” Newt says, and for some reason it feels important- it feels like an admission, a whispered secret, and there is something strange in Newt’s expression. Hermann isn’t quite sure what that _something_ is, but he can feel the weight of the moment. This is special.

He concludes that particular train of thought just in time to come to the realization that Newt is very close.

Very, very close.

Newt’s face is approximately zero-point-five inches away from Hermann’s face.

“What,” Hermann says.

Then Newt kisses him.

His lips are sticky-sweet and taste like alcohol, and Hermann… well, he doesn’t exactly pull away. He sort of accepts the kiss, the way someone might accept a present they aren’t sure they actually have use for.

Hermann has kissed men before, of course. In college, in graduate school- he’s even done more than just kissing. It’s not Newton’s gender that’s stopping him. It’s mainly simple surprise- he’s never allowed himself to even consider Newt in that manner before.

He can appreciate that, objectively, Newt is an attractive man. Hermann is certainly a fan of that whole _look_ Newt has so carefully cultivated _-_ the glasses, the tight-fitting jeans- but the world has been ending and there’s been science to do and they’ve spent most of their time in the same room screaming at each other, so Hermann had pushed any potential thoughts aside.

But it’s been a while, and it’s nice to be kissed.

Hermann isn’t particularly surprised to find that Newt kisses the way he does everything else: without much forethought or planning, but with great amounts of enthusiasm. Newt’s hands move to curl around the back of Hermann’s neck, and he leans in closer, whispers words straight into Hermann’s mouth.

“You kiss like a dead fish.”

That, in the end, is what does it. They might have spent the last hour or so sharing a bottle of terrible liquor on the floor of a lab, but that doesn’t mean they are any less at odds than they were yesterday. Hermann still has an itching need to show Newt up at every possible turn, and hell if he’s going to let himself lose at kissing.

So he kisses back. Newt gives a small gasp of surprise as Hermann’s lips finally begin moving, but then they quickly slip into an easy rhythm. It’s really not that big of a deal, anyway- it’s just kissing, fairly innocent, which honestly comes as some surprise to Hermann. He had expected Newt to be the type to go all the way, right away. Straight from zero to fucking-on-the-floor within seconds. But no, Newt’s hands don’t wander- they just cup Hermann’s neck and his cheeks, his lips move steadily, his breaths puff through his nose and over Hermann’s chin.

It’s nice.

It’s really, really very nice.

Hermann puts an end to it eventually, though. His leg has begun to twinge from spending so long with his ass on a hard floor, and Newt’s position hardly looks comfortable either, leaning over awkwardly in order to reach Hermann’s lips.

Hermann heaves himself to his feet, which is difficult enough with his leg, and made even worse by the alcohol. He wobbles, catches himself on the counter, and watches Newt clamber to his feet with ease that makes Hermann want to punch him.

He still hates Newt, of course. Kissing on the floor did nothing to change that. Hell, the extinction of the human race likely wouldn’t change that- Hermann’s hatred for Newt is some kind of universal constant, a never-wavering data point amongst the apocalyptic chaos. Reassuring, in it’s own way.

As if Newt is thinking exactly the same thing, he stumbles over to Hermann’s chalkboards and breaks every single piece of chalk in half before making his way to the exit.

“I hate you,” Hermann repeats, for the second time that day, because he’s too drunk and tired to think of anything more clever to say.

Newt turns back to him in the doorway of the lab- he is beaming, his cheeks are flushed, his collar is folded the wrong way.

“I hate you too, you dick,” he replies, and something weird swells in Hermann’s chest, almost painful. Honestly, he shouldn’t have drunk so much.

Then Newt is gone, down the hallway, and Hermann is left to wobble his way back to his quarters alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Sara for her incredible ability to drink and beta simultaneously.

2.

Newt fucking loves Christmas.

He had never celebrated it as a kid. His mother (well, biological mother) had been Jewish, and his father strictly atheist. The first time he celebrated Christmas had been his first year of college, and it had been _wonderful._

He loves everything about it. The inescapable carols, the strings of rainbow lights, the idea of chimney-diving fat dudes from the North Pole. As such, he takes it firmly upon himself to spread festivity and cheer throughout the month of December. Screw the fact that the end of humanity is nigh, he’s going to hang some goddamn tinsel.

 

Like some kind of proper Christmas miracle, there’s a lull in the breach.

“Exactly _how_ long ‘till the next attack?” Newt asks, leaning over Hermann’s shoulder to get a better view of his equations. A week ago he had made an attempt at framing Hermann’s blackboards with lights, but Hermann had immediately torn them down and then poured Newt’s coffee down the sink. It’s a work in progress.

“I’ve told you twice already, Geiszler.” Hermann doesn’t even look up from the reference text he’s holding. In the past two years, he’s gotten uncannily good at ignoring Newt, and Newt kind of resents it.

Still, Hermann has taken to calling him just _Geiszler,_ not _Doctor_ Geiszler. Small victories.

“Tell me again,” Newt insists. “Just to make sure.”

Hermann sighs dramatically. “According to the most recent data, the breach won’t be opening for another nine to ten weeks.”

“You mean not until _long after Christmas,_ ” Newt says gleefully, and then flops back into his chair. The motion sends him skidding backwards until he hits one of the lab benches with a loud thud. The chair wobbles and nearly tips, sending Newt flailing. As he steadies himself, he makes a sudden decision.

“Hermann. We’re having a Christmas party.”

“No,” says Hermann instantly.

“Yes!” Newt turns to the rest of the lab. He and Hermann have only been stationed in Tokyo for about eight months, but Newt is already fond of their little team. Including himself and Hermann, they number six- a strange but hardworking group. The others put in overtime and weekends nearly as much as Newt and Hermann do.

“What d’you think, guys?” Newt calls, waving his hands to gather their attention. “A night out, in honor of the spirit of Christmas. It’s not like there’s gonna be an official company Christmas party or anything, but we deserve it. There’s a pretty good karaoke bar just two blocks away.”

There’s a murmur of assent throughout the lab. They can afford one night of revelry- and Newt is right, the team _does_ deserve it. Hermann sighs again, as if the entire world is conspiring against him.

“Then it’s settled,” Newt concludes, clapping his hands together. “Everyone finish up your shit before this evening, and then we’ll go make some Christmas magic happen.”

“I’m not going,” Hermann hisses, quietly enough that the rest of the lab won’t hear.

Newt had kind of expected this. “C’mon,” he pleads. “I know for a fact you spent last year’s Christmas holed up in your room reading biographies, so don’t act like you have something special you’d rather be doing.”

“There are a vast many things I’d rather be doing, and that list includes consuming my own bile.” Hermann turns back to his chalkboard . “My answer is no.”

Newt stares miserably at the back of Hermann’s head. His dumb, incredibly unflattering haircut seems to mock Newt, and for the millionth time Newt imagines taking a razor and just getting rid of the stupid thing.

He’s fairly sure that Hermann would actually kill him for that, though, so he drops his eyes and stares at Hermann’s ass instead. It’s something he’s been doing rather a lot lately, though he isn’t actually sure why.

Newt can’t deny the fact Hermann dresses like someone’s great-grandfather, and his face kind of looks like a frog, and everything about him is lopsided. Every other word out of Hermann’s mouth is some sort of scathing insult, and he acts like Newt is a disgrace to the scientific community. Yet, despite all that, Newt is pretty sure that Hermann Gottlieb is the hottest thing on the face of the Earth.

The feeling would be easier to ignore if Newt just wanted Hermann for his body- Newt wants a lot of people for their bodies, he isn’t exactly a picky dude- but no. The main attraction Newt felt was to that goddamn brain. Hermann’s brilliant, incredible brain, capable of doing dozens of calculations in seconds, quick enough to have a rebuttal to every stupid comment Newt makes. Newt lets out a frustrated noise, and then, before he has time to think, there are words tumbling from his mouth.

“If you come to the Christmas party,” he tells Hermann, voice hardly above a whisper, “there’ll be Jäger.”

For a moment, Newt is sure Hermann won’t get his meaning. They’ve never discussed that night, and it was almost two years ago now. There was a good chance Hermann didn’t even remember it. But then Hermann becomes suddenly, uncomfortably still, and his knuckles go white around the head of his cane. Newt can’t hold back a smug smile.

“…fine,” Hermann snaps. “Against my better judgment.”

It takes a moment for Hermann’s words to process through Newt’s head, and when they finally do, he’s speechless. Newt had never expected that particular bribe to actually be effective at doing anything other than making Hermann blush.

…Holy _shit_. Had he actually just convinced Hermann Gottlieb to come to a party with the promise of alcohol and makeouts?

By the time Newt has recovered from his shock enough to punch the air and war-whoop, Hermann has already left for lunch.

 

They don’t end up leaving the lab until almost ten o’clock. There were simply too many reports that had to be sent out, too many projects that would _just take one minute!_ to finish up.

But they eventually escape, and then their odd little group is trooping down the chilly streets. Newt leads the way, of course, with Hermann trailing reluctantly at the back. As promised, it isn’t far to the crowded karaoke bar, and they tumble into its warmth with relief.

There aren’t any booths large enough for them to all sit together, so they spread out a bit. Newt leads most of the group up to the bar and then to the karaoke stage, gesturing wildly and inarticulately with giddy, holiday-fuelled joy. Hermann, meanwhile, claims a small table in the very back of the bar.

For the next hour, Newt and Hermann barely speak. Newt is very busy butchering song after song in loud, poorly-pronounced Japanese, and Hermann is very busy nursing a bottle of the most tolerable saké he could get his hands on.

By the time Newt finally stumbles over to Hermann’s table, flushed and grinning, the bar has gone from bustling to cozily crowded.

“How’re you liking this taste of the outside world, Herms?” Newt asks, flopping into the chair across from Hermann.

“Charming,” Hermann replies, with the type of distasteful coldness that Newt is fairly sure only curmudgeonly scientists with British accents were capable of achieving.

Instead of replying, Newt chooses to steal Hermann’s saké.

 

As the night goes on, they argue.

That’s all they ever really do, so it comes as no real surprise to Newt when he realizes he’s been shouting for the past ten minutes. He isn’t even exactly sure what they disagree so strongly about, but it’s something about artificial tissue replication and nanobot technology and one thing Newt is entirely certain of is that Hermann is _wrong._

There are also two more bottles of saké on the table than there had been when Newt originally sat down, and the bar is significantly emptier, and Newt is feeling… well, a bit drunk. Their lab team is nowhere to be seen.

Newt stands in order to scan the bar for them, only to wobble helplessly, suddenly nauseous. The bar suddenly seems far too warm, and he is buzzing with restlessness.

“I wanna take a walk,” Newt announces- more to the bar at large than to Hermann specifically, but Hermann seems to assume that the statement is directed at him.

“I’ll come with you,” he says wearily, as if his company is some sort of great service. Newt wants to punch him. Also grab his ass. Maybe he can do those things simultaneously. He evolved with two hands for a reason, after all.

 

They find a park.

It’s a pretty shitty park, as parks go- really just a couple of trees and a bench, but it’s cold and dark and there are neat little frost patterns on the lampposts. Newt leans back and stretches his arms out over the back of the bench, feeling slightly more sober in the cold air.

“Newton,” says Hermann suddenly. The bench is fairly large, but they’re sitting close together for warmth, or something. Newt can feel the heat of Hermann’s hip.

“Hermann,” Newt replies.

“You never bought me Jäeger.”

Newt blinks, trying to remember if that’s true, but the sequence of things has gone a little hazy, and honestly he can’t bring himself to care very much.

“That’s right,” he says at last, because it’s easier than arguing. “Another time, dude.”

“Another time,” Hermann agrees, and Newt tears his eyes from the slate-grey sky in order to look at Hermann. Hermann is looking right back, and Newt isn’t sure if they’re having a staring contest or some kind of emotional moment.

But then Hermann is leaning in, and oh, okay, Newt gets what’s going on here.

They kiss.

It’s good, and vaguely familiar- Hermann’s lips are thin and soft and he smells sort of like cranberries. Newt presses forward and feels their noses smush into each other’s cheeks, feels the tendons in Hermann’s neck tighten when he runs his fingers over them.

Newt doesn’t particularly consider the implications of this being the second time he’s made out with his lab partner, who he sort of hates and sort of admires and sort of wants to fuck. He doesn’t think about how Hermann had been the one to lean in first, and he doesn’t think about the weirdly tender way Hermann’s fingers are combing through his hair.

Newt mostly just focuses on the way Hermann’s head tilts back willingly when Newt decides to suck on his neck, and then he focuses on nipping gently at the soft skin, and then Hermann is pulling back and yelping “did you just give me a _hickey,_ Newton?!”

Newt laughs until tears run down his face, until finally Hermann mutters “sod it,” and drags Newt back in with such sudden force that Newt maybe moans into Hermann’s mouth, just a little.

He lets his hands wander a bit. The first time they had kissed, Newt had been trying _so hard_ to be good, to be slow, to not scare Hermann off with any sudden movements. But it’s obvious that Hermann is into the whole kissing thing this time around, so Newt doesn’t feel guilty about letting his fingertips slide under Hermann’s shirt. He brushes his palms across Hermann’s flat stomach and the ridges of his hips, a little bit lopsided just like the rest of him, and comes to the dim realization that he’s half-hard in his pants.

He doesn’t say anything about it, and if Hermann notices he doesn’t let on. He just lets Newt slide his hands up his chest, lets him map out Hermann’s mouth with his tongue, and when they finally pull away it’s only because Newt’s toes have started to go numb in his boots.

“It’s cold,” he whines, and Hermann scoffs. His breath comes out as a bright white puff.

“Stop acting like a child,” he mutters, and Newt says “well, if you insist,” and then kisses Hermann breathless.

When he finally pulls back, Hermann looks indignant. “That is not what I meant,” he mutters, but Newt can only laugh, and this time they stumble back to the barracks together.

They don’t touch as they make their way back. Hermann has far too much self-respect to do any kind of cheesy hand holding, and even though Newt wouldn’t be opposed to the idea, he keeps his distance. However, by the time they reach Hermann’s door, Newt’s patience has run out.

He presses his whole body up against Hermann, pinning him back to the door, and if Hermann hadn’t noticed Newt’s erection before then he certainly did now.

Hermann’s reaction to this is to reach down and grab Newt’s ass.

Newt yelps in an octave several above his normal range, and jerks his hips forward automatically, and _shit_ , okay, at least he isn’t alone in the boner-having department.

They find a rhythm easily, grinding like teenagers against the door to Hermann’s room. Newt’s face feels hot, and his legs feel weak, and it’s so, so good even while being not even close to enough. He shifts forward in order to wriggle a thigh in between Hermann’s legs, but finds himself being pushed away.

“Um,” Hermann says, and his face is the reddest thing Newt has ever seen. “I. This is a public hallway, Dr. Geiszler.”

“Right,” Newt says, a bit dizzily. He had honestly forgotten, but is suddenly hyperaware of the other doors all along the hallway, all filled with other actual, living people. Shit. At least they hadn’t been making much noise, aside from Newt’s initial yelp.

They stand, staring at each other, for a full twenty seconds before Hermann coughs.

“…Merry Christmas, Dr. Geiszler.”

Just like that, Newt’s grin is back in full force, kiss-bruised lips stretching across his face.

“Merry Christmas, Hermann.”

 

In his own room, Newt jerks off hard and fast to the memory of Hermann’s hips against his, sharp and brilliant and unforgiving. He doesn’t last long, and comes in his hand with a muffled cry.

Afterward, he cleans himself clumsily, using a cloth that appears at least somewhat clean, and flops back onto his bed with sudden exhaustion.

He falls asleep to the nagging idea that this probably isn’t how normal lab partners behave, and the certainty that he really doesn’t care at all.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter updates are gonna be a little slower from here on out, but woohoo, we're halfway there!

3.

They have only been here two weeks, but Hermann has already decided that Alaska is terrible.

All of their previous stations- and there have been many- had been in the middle of cities. Of course, the cities were half-abandoned and mostly made up of PPDC and military employees, but the industrial feeling remained. There were skyscrapers, there was asphalt, there were cars on the sides of the roads.

Anchorage is different.

Even before the apocalypse, it had been small, and now- with the beginnings of a nuclear winter blanketing the Earth, and the threat of monsters from hell every few weeks- the place is almost entirely abandoned.

Not to mention the cold.

It’s only November, but already Hermann has taken to wearing his parka indoors, and his leg aches constantly. The air is too chilled, the people- what

few of them remain- are too weathered.

Hermann can deal with all of that, though. Winter is nothing new. Neither is his leg, and he leaves the lab so infrequently these days that other people are hardly relevant.

The one factor Hermann can’t cope with is Newton’s boredom.

“There is _nothing_ to do here,” Newt moans, for the third time in as many days. Hermann decides he will to have to get fake teeth soon, because he is definitely going to grind his own down to nothing.

“There is science to do,” Hermann suggests. “Very useful science, which would be far more productive than whining. Don’t you have something slimy to fondle?”

Newt, predictably, ignores him. “They don’t have Red Bull here, Hermann. The rations don’t include energy drinks, and I’m ninety percent sure that their coffee is made from actual dish soap.” There is a soft thud as Newt drops his head onto the table. “I’m going to die.”

Hermann sighs and hunches himself further over his monitors, not in any mood to indulge Newt’s antics. His spine is stiff and his leg twinges miserably. It would hurt less if he drew up a chair, but that would mean defeat. Or something.

Hermann distracts himself by checking his email, and, thankfully, a new report has come in.

He reads it over quickly, and then just stares at it for another few seconds. Finally, he swears softly. Newt is instantly leaning over his shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Dr. Masaki is being let go.”

“You mean transferred?”

“No, Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann snaps. “I mean released from service. Just like the rest of our coworkers.”

Newt’s face falls, his eyes scanning the document for himself. “So… they’re actually doing it, huh?”

Hermann doesn’t need him to clarify. “It appears so.”

Newt flings his hands in the air so violently that Hermann takes a step back. “They’re actually fucking doing this. Shutting down years of scientific and mechanical advancement, in favor of building a wall. A fucking _wall_ , Hermann, it’s not going to _work!_ ”

“I know.” Hermann finally gives in and lets himself sink into a chair. Every muscle in his body feels exhausted. “I’ve told them. So have you. So has Pentecost, for god’s sake. They aren’t listening.”

“They’re insane!” Newton slams his hand on the nearest desk. A stack of papers tips onto the floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “They’re going to get everyone killed. They cancelled development of the Mark Fives!”

“I _know_ this _,_ Newton!” and now Hermann is yelling too, though he isn’t sure why. It’s automatic, at this point. They yell, and they fight, and they never agree even when they share the same opinion. Because they have been fighting for years. Because giving in has never been an option. So Hermann continues to shout, because it’s all he can do.

“I’m _aware_ of the implications this has! I’ve been aware of this for the past year! But jaeger production has already been shut down and it appears that we are now the last funded K-Scientists on Earth, so if you have some sort of brilliant idea that will change the United Nations minds, please, feel free to share!”

Newton replies with a wordless shout, tearing at his own hair. Hermann just watches him, trying to calm the angry adrenaline coursing through his own veins. “I need to,” Newt is gulping at the air as if he’s drowning. “I’m going to... go... walk.”

Hermann doesn’t say anything. He simply watches as Newt half-runs from the lab.

It isn’t until the door slams behind him that Hermann sighs. He lifts his cane and, in one smooth motion, sweeps everything on the nearest table onto the floor.

Glass shatters. He doesn’t care.

 

Hermann remains in the lab until the stars begin to fade from the sky and his hands are shaky with exhaustion. By the time he limps his way back to the barracks, the rest of the ‘dome is heading to breakfast- which probably wouldn’t be a bad idea, honestly. But Hermann’s exhaustion outweighs his hunger, so he ignores the flow of people and continues toward his room.

But he pauses, just steps from his door, his room, and his reasonably comfortable bed.

Newt’s room is just a few doors down from Hermann’s, and, given his sudden departure from the lab, and his tendency to have lows nearly as dramatic as his highs… well, it isn’t as if Hermann is worried, but it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to check in on him.

Hermann sighs wearily and continues past his own door, leaning on his cane more heavily than he’d like. When he finally stops outside Newt’s room, he can hear the sound of distorted guitars even through the thick metal. Hermann knocks twice, and then twice again, and at last, with a huff of annoyance, pushes the door open.

(Never locked, no matter how much expensive scientific equipment is stored inside. Hermann grimaces. They have had this argument before. He isn’t in the mood to have it again.)

Hermann has seen Newt’s room several times over their increasingly lengthy history. Maybe not this specific room in Anchorage, but Shatterdome rooms were really the same across the globe, so the view greeting Hermann is essentially what he had expected it to be.

There are unsteady piles of clothes and books, strewn haphazardly across the floor and stacked on every available surface. Charts and graphs and Venn Diagrams cover the walls, interspersed with band posters twenty years past their prime. Music is blasting from a portable speaker on the desk, too loudly for the cheap device to handle, causing the sound to come out crackled and distorted.

Hermann had definitely expected all of this.

What he hadn’t expected was to see Newt lying sprawled across his bed, naked except for a pair of dark blue boxers.

He also hadn’t expected to see the bare ass of an attractive young woman kneeling over him.

For a split second, Hermann is entirely frozen. He watches in paralyzed horror as Newt’s eyes flick over to him, then widen slowly in surprise. He watches as the woman turns to see him, her expression morphing from _seductive_ to _horrified_ in moments.

“Oh!” She gasps, and leaps off of Newt, doing her best to hide herself in his blankets. In the same instant, Newt scrambles up from the bed, stumbling slightly, and stares at Hermann with slightly panicked confusion.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Hermann screeches, mortified. “I’m sorry! I’m- I apologize, I didn’t mean to disturb you-” Newt is still just staring at him, and now that he’s standing Hermann can’t help but stare back, because _tattoos._

Hermann had never really thought too much about Newt’s tattoos. He knew that every once in a while Newt would announce that he was getting a new one, and spend weeks doodling potential designs all over Hermann’s chalkboards, and then sometimes he would come into the lab with bandages on his arms that peeled off to reveal shiny new patterns. Hermann had expressed his distaste at them- loudly, and repeatedly- but aside from that, Newt never really discussed them. Hermann had assumed that the ink was contained to just Newt’s arms, maybe his shoulders.

He was wrong.

Hermann traces the tattoos with his eyes as they flow up Newt’s arms, over his shoulders, across his chest, ribs, stomach. Honestly, for a design that was added to piece by piece, at different tattoo parlors over a period of years, it comes together quite nicely. There are still a few blank spaces, over his sternum and his left hip, obviously left waiting for further kaiju- a thought that Hermann finds both fascinating and depressing- but aside from the gaps, the patterns mesh fluidly. The drawings stretch down over his hips, disappearing into the dark line of Newt’s boxers, and Hermann can’t help but wonder just how far down they go. The curves of Newt’s narrow waist are still visible under the brightly colored inks, as is the fact that he’s still sporting a fairly obvious erection.

Hermann feels blood rushing to his cheeks at that realization, and he apologizes again, fumbling with his cane as he rushes to back out the door. The last thing he sees before he slams it behind him is Newt’s face, flushed and puzzled, but grinning.

Hermann half-runs, half-hobbles his way down the hall as quickly as his leg will allow, practically falling flat on his face in his rush to reach his own room. In comparison to Newt’s, it seems horribly tidy, and possibly even a little bare, but from the instant Hermann steps inside he feels calmer. He sinks wearily onto the edge of his bed and forces himself to sort through his churning thoughts.

Hermann knew Newt had sex. He knew Newt had sex because Newt frequently talked about having sex, or lack of sex, or the potential of having sex. Hermann never really paid much attention to it, because it was an inane and unprofessional topic, and also because the idea of Newt having sex made Hermann’s stomach feel strange if he let himself think about it too much.

It had been ignorable, though, because it had always just been an abstract idea. As intangible as the numbers Hermann worked with, he could force himself not to think about it when the only evidence was Newt’s own boasting.

But now… well.

Hermann couldn’t erase the image of what he’d seen when he first walked into the room, before they had noticed him. The way Newt was splayed out on the bed, lewd and unabashed, the way his eyes had been half-lidded with lust.

Hermann’s cock twitches in his pants, and he scrubs his hands over his face furiously. No. He is not going to jerk off to his lab partner. He forces himself to think about how horrible Newt is ninety-nine percent of the time, how he is messy and loud and how his hair sometimes escapes from it’s gel and falls over his eyes and how his mouth and hips and tongue felt that one time in Tokyo.

Goddammit.

Hermann flops back onto his bed, clenches his eyes shut hard enough to make spots dance in his vision, and falls asleep with his shoes still on.

 

The next two months are awful.

Hermann isn’t sure he remembers what being well-rested feels like anymore. He moves through a haze of exhaustion, himself and Newt scrambling to do all the work of a six-person lab crew. Sometimes when Hermann comes into the lab he finds that Newton has simply slept there, slumped over one of the desks or even curled up on the floor. The first time Hermann found him like that, he draped his parka over Newt’s narrow shoulders and worked as quietly as he could until Newt jolted himself awake.

Newt never said anything about it, but these days he brings Hermann coffee perhaps a bit more often than usual.

So they work, and they barely sleep, and the days become shorter and darker. And when Newt is not working, Newt is having sex.

“Hands-down the best thing about the apocalypse,” Newt says, as he watches Hermann attempt to type up a conclusion for their weekly report without resorting to profanity. “Everyone is down to fuck.”

“Congratulations,” Hermann says coldly, and he hates Newt just a little bit more for laughing.

“I’m sure I could hook you up with someone, dude,” Newt insists. “There’s this cute J-Tech guy I was talking to a couple days ago, he’d probably sell his thumbs for a chance to get into your pants. He said he just _looooved_ your coding work on the Mark Ones.”

Hermann chokes despite himself, and Newt laughs even harder.

“Seriously, man, let me set you up! I could play curmudgeonly nerd matchmaker.”

“No,” Hermann manages, resolutely keeping his back to Newt.

“Why not?” Newt argues, but Hermann clenches his jaw and says nothing.

The next day Newt comes into the lab no less than six hickies on his throat.

“Well, since you didn’t want the J-Tech guy,” he drawls, leaning over Hermann’s desk, “I took up his offer on your behalf.”

Hermann refuses to speak to Newt all morning, and is perhaps a bit meaner than usual when they get into an argument about the tidal distribution of viscera later that day.

 

The call comes in at midnight on a Thursday.

Newt is the one who takes it. Hermann is busy trying to fit a few more numbers into the very top left corner of his blackboard, leaning precariously over his ladder.

Then Newt screams _“WHAT THE FUCK,”_ and Hermann yelps and drops his chalk.

“Bloody hell, what was that?” He turns to see Newt staring at the phone as if it just bit him. “…Dr. Geiszler?”

“You’re insane,” Newt says blankly, and it takes Hermann a moment to realize he’s still speaking into the phone. “I actually cannot believe you think this is a good idea. How is this a good idea? This is the definition of a _fucking terrible_ idea.”

He pauses for a moment, presumably to let the voice on the other end of the line speak. Hermann isn’t even sure how to classify Newt’s expression at this moment. He tentatively settles on _intense rage, with a splash of indignity and a generous helping of disbelief_.

Newt screams into the phone again, effectively disrupting Hermann’s psychoanalysis. “Oh, sure, yes, _of course you can talk to Hermann!_ ” Newt thrusts the phone in Hermann’s direction.

Hermann takes it delicately, dread filling his stomach.

“…Hello?”

Less than thirty seconds later, it is taking all of Hermann’s willpower not to throw the phone across the room.

“Please, sir,” he says, desperation choking at his throat. “I don’t think you understand the depth of the work the K-Science unit has been doing. Shutting the entire program down would mean- yes, sir. I understand, sir.” He grits his teeth then, and perhaps it’s because he hasn’t slept in almost two days, or because he’s been working with Newton for too long. Perhaps he’s just tired of the world ending, but in any case, Hermann holds the phone carefully up to his mouth, says “fuck you very much, sir,” and ends the call.

The lab is perfectly, horribly silent for almost a full minute.

Hermann finally forces himself to look at Newt, who is still standing at the base of his ladder. Newt is visibly trembling with fury, and paler than Hermann has ever seen him.

Six and a half years, they’ve been working together.

Working, bickering, occasionally having screaming matches that lasted until Hermann’s throat was raw and he felt faint.

Six and a half years Hermann has spent not sleeping because there was just too much to do, packing up and being shunted halfway across the world with hardly a week’s notice, living in matchbox-sized quarters and up to his ankles in kaiju entrails.

All because he was entirely sure that if he worked just a little bit harder, slept just a little bit less, screamed just a little bit louder - he would save the world.

They would save the world.

Hermann doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear falls from his chin and hits the toe of Newt’s boot.

 

Almost exactly twenty-four hours later, Hermann is standing in front of the door to Newt’s room. The sound of guitars can still be heard through the door, and Hermann absently wonders if Newt sleeps with that radio on.

“Dr. Geiszler,” He tries, again. He is exhausted, he hasn’t eaten in over a day, he’s forgotten his parka in the lab and fingers are numb with cold. “Dr. Geiszler. Newton! Stop being a child and answer your door.”

Newt’s responding scream is barely audible through the thick metal, but Hermann is fairly sure it was something along the lines of _fuck off, Hermann._

But Hermann is stubborn, and he is versed in the ways of Newton-aggravation. He taps his cane against the frame of the door arhythmically. Twenty seconds, thirty seconds, forty seconds, and then Newt is slamming the door open. His eyes and face are red, his shirt missing, his mouth set in what Hermann can only describe as a pout.

“I am _seriously_ not in the mood to talk to you right now, dude.” Newt’s voice sounds almost brittle.

Hermann says nothing, simply holds up the bottle of cheap Russian vodka he had stolen from the provisions room.

Newt stares at him with narrowed eyes for a long moment. Hermann meets his gaze steadily, and finally, with a sigh, Newt steps back to let Hermann inside.

Hermann makes no attempt to make a formal event out of it, and Newt says nothing. They simply sit on the edge of Newt’s bed, passing the bottle back and forth and grimacing as alcohol burns trails down their throats. Newt’s hands are shaking. Hermann wants so badly to reach out and hold them steady.

The hours since the phone call had been spent in a miserable flurry. Attempting to finish off the most urgent projects, talking to endless administrators and suits and doing all of the horrible technical busywork Hermann hated, and Newt hated even more.

There was still more to do tomorrow. The lab was a mess of half-packed boxes and papers, labels peeling off of battered cardboard. Newt had refused to let them pack up his kaiju specimens for archiving, but their time would have to come eventually.

Hermann supposes he can’t judge too much. He has yet to wipe clean his chalkboards. It’s more of a symbolic gesture than anything.

The vodka works quickly and gracelessly, which Hermann supposes is what he’d wanted. The lack of food in his system certainly isn’t helping matters- every drop of alcohol shoots straight to his head, and already he feels dizzy.

“I hate them.”

Newt’s voice is so low that it’s unrecognizable. Hermann blinks in surprise at him.

“I hate them all so much,” Newt repeats, picking at a loose thread in his blankets. “We were doing what they’d asked, Hermann. We were working our asses off, we were living in goddamn Alaska! No questions asked, no complaints!” He pauses to hiccup miserably. “We were saving the _world,_ dude.”

Hermann says nothing to that, because what could be said? Newt continues anyway, raising the bottle and giving Hermann a nod.

“To us,” he says, voice flat and cold. “The two smartest unemployed sons-of-bitches in the world.”

He tips the bottle back, and Hermann wants to cry. He wants to scream, he wants to break something, he wants to break some _one._

Hermann feels adrenaline rushing through his veins as he watches Newt set the bottle down on the floor between his legs. He still isn’t wearing a shirt, and his tattoos ripple when he moves. Hermann hates him. Hermann hates him, hates the fact that his research has probably saved millions of lives, hates how he works just as hard as Hermann, if not harder. He hates the fact that at the end of everything, Newt is the only one sitting next to him. Hermann has never wanted to hit someone so badly in his life, and he is filled with the sudden, jittery need to do something, something, _anything._

He grabs Newt by his bare shoulders and yanks him forward.

It seems like Newt had almost been expecting it. They crash together in a rough kiss, Newt already attempting to set a rhythm with his lips and tongue. Hermann is having none of it. He needs more than that, he needs a scapegoat, a punching bag, and Newt fills the purpose.

He bites down hard, the taste of blood filling his mouth. Newt gasps, but doesn’t pull away- instead, he pushes back, and then they’re fighting, sort of. Their teeth clack together, Hermann can feel something trickling over his bottom lip- blood or saliva, he isn’t sure. Hermann claws along Newt’s back, bare skin, surprisingly smooth. Somehow, Hermann had almost expected the tattoos to leave a texture.

Newt’s hands fist in Hermann’s hair and _yank,_ and Hermann moans, the sound unfamiliar to his own ears. He is suddenly very, very aware of the fact that Newton is already only half-clothed, and he takes full advantage of it, dipping his mouth down to Newt’s neck and then his collarbones.

His teeth brush over the ink on Newton’s skin, and Hermann imagines he can taste it, imagines that if he bites down hard enough his teeth will sink through the carefully rendered designs.

Newt takes that moment to slide his thumbs underneath Hermann’s waistline, and Hermann jerks so violently that he nearly sends both of them tumbling off of the bed.

That only causes Newt to laugh into the kiss, and that in turn results in Hermann kissing him even harder for the purpose of making him shut up. Then, somehow, Newton is lying on top of Hermann, pinning him to the narrow military-issue bed.

Hermann lifts his lips automatically, searching for friction, but finds none. Instead he opens his eyes to see Newt awkwardly frozen above him, supporting himself on all fours and carefully not touching Hermann below the waist.

“What are you-” Hermann begins, at exactly the same moment as Newt says “So, uh, your leg-”

They both fall silent instantly, and embarrassment hits Hermann like a punch to the gut.

The most shameful part, possibly, is that this is par for the course as far as Hermann’s sexual encounters usually go. He knows by now that he should be long over it, that he should have accepted it, but. Well. Newt rarely mentioned his leg, and certainly never in a context like _this,_ and Hermann is suddenly horrified that Newton finds his disability repulsive, something that should not be seen or touched or thought about more than absolutely necessary.

Thankfully, that particular train of thought subsides when Hermann remembers that he has seen Newton grinning gleefully while up to his elbows in intestines. Newt is many things, but weak-stomached and judgemental he is not.

The sudden burst of anxiety calmed, Hermann isn’t sure whether to feel flustered or grateful. Newton, for all of his reckless lack of foresight, for all of his impulsiveness, even for the fact he is extremely drunk at the moment- still remembered Hermann’s leg.

Hermann really isn’t sure exactly what to think about that.

But now Newt is staring down at him with some concern, and Hermann forcibly shakes himself back to the present.

“It’s- it’s fine. Just put your weight on one side.” He demonstrates, pulling Newt down by the hips until they fit neatly, Newt’s legs on either side of Hermann’s good one. Hermann’s hip still twinges painfully when Newt’s weight settles on top of him, but it’s bearable. Quite more than bearable, actually, the moment Newt starts moving.

Goddamn, Hermann decides. It really has been far too long since he’s had another human being doing… this. He bucks his hips up against Newt’s, drags his fingernails over the small of his back. Newt gasps into the nape of Hermann’s neck, and that alone is far more of a turn-on than it should be. Hermann slides his hands down farther, over Newt’s ass-

And, at that exact moment, Stacker Pentecost opens the door.

 

Hermann has made a new scientific discovery. It is physically impossible to die of embarrassment, no matter how desirable death seems.

As it is, Hermann and Newt are both unfortunately alive.

By far the worst part is Pentecost’s expression. First there is surprise, obviously, but then comes a look that Hermann can only describe as _oh, god, I knew it._

He and Newt had both scrambled off of each other the moment the door opened, and now sit side by side on the edge of Newt’s bed. Hermann has a sudden flashback to moments spent in the principal’s office in grade school. Beside him, Newt is blushing so hard that Hermann imagines he can feel the heat from where he sits.

He still isn’t wearing a goddamn shirt. Hermann’s boner is _extremely_ confused.

It is a tribute to Newton’s ability to function under extreme circumstances when he stands and greets Pentecost casually.

“What’s brought you down here, Marshall?”

“I can come back later,” Pentecost responds, sounding uncertain for the first time in Hermann’s living memory.

“No, no,” Newt says quickly, stooping awkwardly to pick a shirt up off of the floor. Hermann very carefully does _not_ look at his ass. “Seriously, go for it.”

Thankfully, Pentecost begins to speak, even though he resolutely doesn’t meet either of their eyes. “As you know, the K-Science unit has been cut from government funding, and they aren’t the only unit. The entire Jaeger program has just eight months of minimal funding remaining- enough to keep the existing Jaegers in working order until the… wall… is completed.”

Hermann scoffs at the mention of the wall, and Pentecost tips is head in acknowledgement. “I’m fairly sure that the three of us are of similar opinion when it comes to this wall idea.”

“The opinion of it being bullshit?” Newt supplies. At least he’s no longer half-nude. Hermann still refuses to look at him.

Pentecost nods, looking more tired than amused. “We aren’t the only ones who believe that the jaeger program must continue even after United Nations funding stops. So, I have an offer for the two of you.”

Pentecost’s gaze finally meets Hermann’s, narrowed and determined. “We’re forming a resistance.”

 

Eight hours later, Hermann is sitting in an airplane on the way to Hong Kong, and Newt is sprawled across the seat beside him.

“This has been a weird day,” Newt announces.

Hermann says nothing, mostly because he can see exactly zero positive ways for this conversation to go. Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t hinder Newt in the slightest.

“I’ve learned a lot, though,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “Most relevant is probably the life lesson of _do not drink half a bottle of vodka and then take an international flight._ Because man, I dunno about you, but I feel kind of like death.”

Hermann makes a non-committal noise of agreement. He wishes he’d had time to eat something more than a packet of animal crackers before stepping onto a flying metal tube.

“Actually, now that I think about it,” says Newt, “most of the other lessons are just shit I should’ve taken to heart ages ago. For instance, always lock the door if there’s a possibility of-”

“No,” Hermann says, firmly. Newt grins.

“Oh, come on. If Pentecost hadn’t-”

“Stop.”

“-we totally would’ve-”

“Wrong.”

“-and you were _obviously_ into-”

“I will hit you.”

Newton, thankfully, stops speaking in order to giggle gleefully. Hermann wonders how difficult it would be to shove him into one of the overhead compartments.

“It’s ok, man,” Newt assures him. “There’s plenty of cheap vodka in Hong Kong.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this update took so long! The next will be sooner, promise.  
> Thanks, as always, to Sara, and to [this 8tracks mix](http://bit.ly/1cjsxVQ), which might as well be this fic's unofficial soundtrack.
> 
> [Minor warnings for emotional and mental trauma in this chapter. You know, the kind of stuff that comes with drifting with an enormous alien hivemind.]

4.

 

The Hong Kong Shatterdome is chaos, and Newt _loves_ it.

It’s every other Shatterdome he’s ever stepped foot into condensed into something more pure, more frantic, more exciting. It’s crowds of people dashing through hallways and shouting in a language Newt can’t understand. It’s constant construction and relocation and surprisingly good food and _never_ quite enough equipment. The kaiju attacks are coming more and more frequently, and every time Newt steps into the cafeteria he hears people speaking in the hushed and hurried tone that means _we are not safe, we are fighting, we are losing._

It’s a constant adrenaline rush, it’s a splash of cold water to the face, it’s invigorating and exhausting at the same time. Newt hardly ever leaves the lab, and the only human beings he speaks to are Pentecost and Hermann.

Hermann, Newt has come to realize, is _one tough motherfucker._

He stands there on his rickety old ladders and scribbles down numbers as if he’s impatient with the speed of his own hand, he hardly eats and hardly sleeps and his ridiculous grandpa sweaters slowly become more and more rumpled as he gives up on ironing them.

Even though Hermann never mentions it, Newt can see that he leans on his cane more heavily these days. He sits at his desk rather than standing, takes two aspirin with his breakfast instead of one.

Newt still brings him coffee sometimes. It becomes something of a symbol, their own strange version of a peace offering. But now Newt uses it as something else. A sign of _I care about you and you look like shit, so please don’t die, because working in the lab all alone would suck._

At some point, Newt’s occasional gifts of coffee become frequent, and frequent becomes daily. Black with two sugars. Hermann never thanks him, and Newt doesn’t expect him to.

They work and they work and the kaiju just _keep coming_ , and slowly they form hypotheses that make Newt shiver with fear. He finds chunks of identical DNA hidden within the seemingly unrelated tissues. Hermann makes carefully plotted graphs that curve up, up, up toward inevitable disaster.

They are racing toward the end of humanity, and they don’t even know where the finish line is.

 

Newt has a plan.

Hermann screams that it isn’t going to work. Hermann screams that Newt is going to kill himself. Hermann screams a lot of things, honestly, but Hermann also predicts that kaiju are going to start coming in twos and then threes and then more until there’s no hope left. So what other choice does Newt have?

Newt is shaking as he straps his own modified Pons to his head. It clamps there firmly, almost reassuringly, and Newt tries to retain some semblance of calm. He feels high and nauseous all at once, and he babbles into a handheld recorder because it’s calming, somehow. It has to work, because he _has_ to know, because it’s the only way and he’s the only one and there is no time and no alternative and no hesitation no hesitation _do it do it do it._

Newt presses the button.

 

Several lifetimes later, Newt comes to the realization that he is not dead.

Normally this would be a reassuring thought, but given the horrible, skull-splitting pain in his head, Newt isn’t so sure. Maybe death would be preferable to this.

There are noises in his ears, speech, though he can’t comprehend a word.

Why is everything so dark?

His eyes are closed.

Oh.

Newt opens his eyes and everything is white-hot and searing and okay, that was a horrible idea. Newt closes his eyes again.

Someone is still talking, and maybe someone is touching him, though Newt is still fairly fuzzy on what exactly _him_ means. He takes a moment to confirm that he has mostly human organs.

Okay, someone is shaking him now. Ouch.

“Newton, Newton, what did you _do-_ ”

Hermann’s voice. Oh. That makes sense, Newt supposes. He manages to lift a hand enough to cling to Hermann’s shirtsleeve. Hermann is surprisingly solid. A little house made out of bricks. Huff and puff, you won’t blow him down.

Newt is tempted to giggle, but his everything hurts too much.

Then, suddenly, memories of what he just did are washing over Newt like a tidal wave, and he’s drowning. The drift. The feeling of enormity, of power, of bloodlust, of pain.

“Get Pentecost,” Newt manages, and he hates how confused Hermann’s eyes are, hates how literally _nobody_ understands what is going on. This is important, goddammit, this is the most important thing in the history of the world, will _someone please do something._

But because Hermann is horrible and incapable of ever doing what Newton asks, he still insists on getting Newt into a chair and handing him a cup of water. Newt doesn’t argue, partly because just agreeing is faster and partly because it still feels like his eyeballs have turned into acid. But finally, _finally,_ Hermann agrees to go get Pentecost, and then Newt is alone.

He tries to drink the water- he really does- but everything tastes like blood, so he gives up on that fairly quickly. Instead Newt spends Hermann’s absence wondering whether or not he is going to vomit, and if so, would it be worth it to crawl to the trash can? His limbs kind of feel like rubber. He wouldn’t put much faith in his own ability to get there in time.

Then Hermann is back, and so is Pentecost, and they tell him to talk. So Newt talks, even though his thoughts are so scattered he isn’t sure he’s making any sense at all. He isn’t actually entirely sure he’s speaking English.

He must have said at least _something_ that got their attention, though, because Pentecost tells him to do it again.

Impossible. He’d need a new kaiju brain.

He’d probably need a new human brain too, after that, but he doesn’t say that aloud. Hermann already looks ready to faint.

Pentecost says they have a kaiju brain.

Newt blinks. _What?_

 

“I cannot _believe_ you knew about an entire black-market operation that sells kaiju organs in _this very city_ , and you _didn’t tell me about it,_ ” Newt says the moment Pentecost leaves, and Hermann doesn’t have the dignity to look even slightly abashed.

“If I had told you,” Hermann reasons, “You would go dashing in there and get yourself killed. Either that or spend the entire budget on tissue samples.”

“They would be _extremely useful tissue samples!”_ Newt shrieks, which is a mistake, because it makes his ears ring and his head spin. Hermann still doesn’t flinch.

“Look, Hermann,” Newt says firmly, as he scrambles into his jacket, “I don’t have time right now to tell you how horrible you are, because I have to go be a hero and probably save the world while you sit around and do math. But pretend I spent at least fifteen minutes explaining how awful you are, and how you’re a no-good liar who I was foolish to trust, and how you basically suck in every way.”

That came out a little meaner than Newt had intended, but whatever. His head _really_ hurts, and he’s in a hurry.

Hermann just rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful, and Newt decides that’s as close to victory as he’s going to get. “Okay,” he mutters, not exactly sure how to make his exit. “…bye, then.”

“Do try not to get yourself killed,” is Hermann’s reply.

Newt slams the door behind him.

 

Newt spends the next several hours dashing through the bone slums of Hong Kong, getting a knife stuck up his nose, almost getting eaten _three times,_ and all the while trying to ignore a nuclear holocaust taking place behind his eyeballs. By the time he’s standing in front of the baby kaiju’s corpse, calling back to the Shatterdome to tell someone to bring his Pons equipment, his hands are shaking so badly he can barely operate the phone.

When Hermann shows up in the Shatterdome transport along with his equipment, Newt can’t even find the energy to question it. Passing out is starting to seem like less of a concern and more of an inevitability, so Newt just focuses on assembling the Pons, racing the kaiju fetus’s dying brain and his own reluctant body.

Then Hermann offers to join him in the drift, and Newt has zero idea how to react.

He had spent the entire day terrified, confused, on the verge of panic. But now Hermann is staring at him with total trust, as if he’s sure that Newt knows exactly what he’s doing. His conviction is infectious. Newt feels like he can breathe for the first time in hours.

They’re doing this. They’re standing together beside a dying alien fetus, and they have been working toward this for their entire lives, and they are going to do this. It feels right.

Newt settles the Pons onto his head for the second time that day, and this time, his hands don’t shake.

 

The drift, Newt thinks, is a lot like a hurricane.

It is enormous, a great swirling mass, vast and dangerous and ever-changing. Newt can do nothing but be swept along with it, to feel the power of it surrounding him as he struggles just to breathe. It is too much, it is crushing, he is dying under the weight of a billion combined consciousnesses.

Then… there is the eye of the storm.

Hermann Gottlieb, tiny and bright, in the middle of it all. An unwavering constant. Newt finds refuge there, barricades himself behind memories of private schools and equations. He keeps the whirling chaos at bay by clinging to the taste of Mrs. Gottlieb’s cooking, of that time last Thursday Hermann couldn’t find his matching sock. Newt buries himself in textures and emotions, builds a little fortress, and he is safe.

He is safe.

Then the connection is severed and Newt thinks his lungs might explode and Hermann throws up and holy fucking shit, they have to get back to the Shatterdome.

 

Newt kind of passes out on the short ride back, and only wakes because Hermann is dragging him to his feet with firm hands. Then they are half-running, half-stumbling into the ‘dome, and Newt is screaming at everyone to get out of the goddamn way, and the control room is already crowded chaos but Newt shoves to the front and shouts into the microphone anyway because _it isn’t going to work._

Once Newt has explained the situation, hurriedly and at great volume, he finally steps back. Everyone else in the room still works away frantically, analyzing the data as it comes through, but Newt and Hermann can do nothing but stand in tense silence.

This is it, Newt dimly realizes. He watches the radar screens as the little dot that signifies Gipsy Danger approaches the breach.

This is their final stand.

Then the feeds indicate Gipsy falling, taking the final kaiju down with it, down and down and down and _through the breach._

Newt wants to shout, and beside him Hermann’s eyes are popping out of his head, but they don’t dare move. They don’t dare breathe, as the seconds tick by in silence. The breach is still open. No detonation.

Hansen and Tendo are shouting, into the microphone and to each other, and every screen is blinking emergency-red. Newt dares to glance at Hermann, who is paler than Newt has ever seen him.

The feeds indicate oxygen levels dropping. Alarms blare throughout the room, a cacophony that threatens to send Newt back into unconsciousness.

One escape pod is deployed.

Then another.

And then, after the longest seconds of Newt’s life, Gipsy explodes.

The screens in the control room aren’t equipped with any kind of pretty graphics to show changes in the breach. There’s no 3D-modelled-eyecandy, no appealingly colored graphs. Just simple digital numbers that have been increasing each year since the first kaiju appeared.

For the first time since the breach’s appearance, the numbers begin to drop.

The entire room holds its breath, watching, praying, as the numbers decrease faster, faster. The breach collapses in on itself.

The numbers on the screen hit zero.

Almost like a single entity, the room erupts. Papers are thrown into the air, people are crying. Newt has flung an arm around Hermann before he can think about it, and Hermann shuffles into him, their sides pressed together warmly. Newt thinks he might cry.

The room has just started settling down when the pods appear- first Mako’s, and then, after a distressingly long moment, Raleigh’s- and that starts the cheering back up again, even louder than before. It’s fantastic yet overwhelming, and Newt clings to Hermann like a lifeline. It’s something he’s been doing distressingly frequently over the course of the day.

The next few hours are a blur, sometimes literally. Newt isn’t exactly sure what two hasty drifts with alien monsters (and an uppity lab partner) has done to his brain, but he feels distracted and detached and kind of nauseous, and sometimes when he blinks he sees fluorescent blue. Hermann sticks to his side almost obsessively, though Newt isn’t sure if it’s for Hermann’s sake or his own.

At some point Mako and Raleigh return, and Hansen stops the clock, and then some brilliant bastard plugs a radio into the PA system and fills the hangers with booming noise.

Suddenly, Newt and Hermann are standing in the middle of the party of the century.

Someone Newt’s never spoken to shoves a beer into his hand. People are cheering, shout-singing along to the music, jostling. After a few minutes someone has the foresight to dim the overhead lights, which is received with an enthusiastic cheer.

Newt is grinning so hard his face hurts. He’s still contemplating the idea of passing out and his vision goes dark if he turns his head too fast, but hell if that’s going to stop him. He just saved the fucking world. He’s going to party.

Beside him, Hermann scoffs and steals the still-unopened beer right out of Newt’s hand.

“I’m going to sit down,” he gripes, and then disappears through the mass of bodies before Newt can say a word. For a moment, Newt considers following him, but Hermann seems fine. Fine, and absolutely no fun. So, basically, fuck that.

 

Newt’s partying capability doesn’t last long. He’s on the dance floor, two beers and several shots later, when his digestive system informs him that it is tolerating no more. Newt awkwardly disentangles himself from a (rather cute) mechanic and dashes for the bathrooms, barely making it to the toilets in time.

He spends the next half hour vomiting into dirty porcelain and bleeding from his nose.

He just saved the goddamn world, and this is entirely unfair. Newt is indignant.

When his stomach is empty and he has most of the blood wiped off his face- damn, the scratch across his forehead looks way nastier than he’d thought- Newt sets off on a quest for solitude, and also consumable liquids.

He ends up in the kitchens, which are entirely abandoned, and eerily quiet after the noise in the hangars. Someone has already rummaged through the place, but after some searching, Newt finds a bottle of tequila and a stack of unopened orange juice containers. Dimly, he’s aware that drinking _more_ alcohol immediately after throwing up is a terrible idea, but his head aches and he feels tightly-wound and rubbery-loose all at once. All the kaiju and all the jaegers are _gone, forever,_ and he is still far too sober to deal with any of this. For a moment he misses stronger varieties of mind-altering substances he’d enjoyed before joining the military. Placating oblivion, time slowing to a crawl, euphoric confidence in his veins.

Surely _someone_ back at the party has _something_. Newt is already assembling a mental list of whom he would ask, but then he remembers the loud thumping of the music and the claustrophobic crowd, and blanches.

But… why? Newt has never felt that way before in his life. He _adores_ the close crush of bodies, the feeling of the ground vibrating beneath his boots. Now he just feels kind of nauseous again.

Holy shit, Newt realizes. He is feeling downright _Hermannish_ in regards to parties.

He isn’t quite sure what to make of that.

Still, his sudden reclusive urges don’t fade, so Newt gives in and remains in the kitchens. He sits on the edge of one of the counters, swinging his legs and alternating swigs between tequila and orange juice. There are probably cups around somewhere, but he really can’t bring himself to care.

He feels a little bit ridiculous.

Whatever. He just saved the world. He can do what he wants.

The door opens, and Newt jumps.

“…Newton?”

Newt tries for casual. “What’s up?”

Hermann gives him an odd look as he limps over, his hands awkwardly shoved into his pockets. Newt’s mouth fills with questions faster than he can ask them.

“What are _you_ doing here? Is it because you knew I was here? If so, how the hell did you know, and if not, why are you in the kitchens anyway? Also, where the fuck is your cane?”

Instead of answering, Hermann heaves himself up onto the countertop beside Newt. He moves with deliberate casualness, but Newt can tell how much effort it takes. He’s been inside the Hermann’s head- all of those little everyday charades were pretty unnecessary at this point.

Still, Newt kind of appreciates how Hermann continues them anyway. It brings a sense of normalcy.

Okay, Newt decides, he really needs to stop thinking of Hermann as some sort of unwavering refuge amidst the chaotic world. It was getting weird.

“I thought you’d be here,” Hermann says at last, once he’s settled himself. “As for my cane, it has been… misplaced.”

Newt ogles at him. “You _misplaced_ your cane?”

Hermann glares daggers at him.

“I am drunk,” he says simply, and steals the tequila bottle from Newt’s hands.

Newt finds this incredibly unnerving, and slightly too _him_ for his own liking.

“Stop being me,” Newt insists.

The glower Hermann gives him is reassuring. It means that Hermann has realized what is going on, too.

“Apparently, I cannot,” Hermann snaps. “I felt the urge to _dance,_ Newton.”

“Oh, my god,” Newt giggles, a bit hysterically. “And I missed this? Goddammit. Okay, only solution, we need to drift again and then immediately afterward get you drunk. Also I will need access to a video camera.”

Hermann does not dignify that with a response. “I knew that drift partners frequently experienced ghost drifting, but I suppose I never understood how deep the effects would run.”

“How deep?” Newt echoes. “You qualify a sudden need to get down with your bad self as _deep?_ Man, maybe I haven’t got that whole mysterious intellectual look you try so hard to maintain, but I assure you, my brain’s got more interesting stuff going on than the _urge to dance._ ”

Hermann huffs, annoyed. “It’s more than that, obviously. I cannot look at a stranger’s gait without noting their peroneal muscles. I could easily name each terrible song they were playing in the hangars, I could even identify which year most came out, and I actually _enjoyed_ it when an electric guitar solo came on. My thoughts are _disorganized,_ I keep imagining up _terrible_ metaphors, and I have the urge to roll my sleeves up.” Hermann stops suddenly, looking furious at Newton and also possibly himself.

Newt, for once, is speechless.

He hadn’t even considered how deep the drift might run. He hadn’t been thinking about it, attributing any of his own strange thoughts to stress, exhaustion, and possible mental trauma. Yet…

Newt stares down at the jug of orange juice in his hands, something he had never had a taste for. Until now.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes.

Hermann smirks and takes another long swig from the tequila. Newt swipes it back, leaving Hermann sputtering.

“I need it more than you,” Newt reasons, tipping the bottle back.

“ _I’m_ the one sharing a head with you.”

“I have to share a head with me every day of my life.”

Hermann snorts despite himself. “…I concede. You deserve a drink for putting up with Newton Geiszler for so many decades.”

“So many decades? You make me sound ancient.” Still, Newt passes the bottle back. He was feeling amicable, possibly because Hermann’s presence made him feel… safe. Goddammit.

“You’re staring at my mouth,” Hermann points out.

“Did you know your mouth looks like a toad? Like, a Harlequin Toad. _Atelopus varius_. They’re native to Costa Rica-”

Hermann doesn’t take the bait. “Newton, you do realize that I have been in your brain, and therefore can predict fairly easily what you are thinking right now?”

Newton hopes to hell and back that Hermann is wrong. “ _Nnnno_ you don’t. That is totally not true. Not even a little bit. I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a- mmf.”

Hermann kisses him.

Okay, that is good. That is vastly preferable to Hermann attempting to point out what Newt was _really_ thinking, which was something along the lines of Hermann being his port in the storm, candle in the dark, the cheesy metaphor in his rambling monologue.

No, instead they’re kissing, and that is good, that is actually great, because as well as putting Hermann’s potentially disastrous train of thought to rest, it also happens to distract Newt from all of his own potentially disastrous trains of thought. Instead he can just focus on Hermann’s lips, and the feel of slight stubble on his cheeks (they had just been so busy. Too busy to sleep, too busy to shave), and the way Hermann cups the back of his head.

Then Hermann moves his fingers to that one sensitive spot behind Newt’s ear, and he presses his lips into the nape of Newt’s neck and _holy shit_ , what, why is this so great, how is Hermann _so good_ at-

Oh.

“You dick,” Newt hisses. “You aren’t allowed to use my fucking _drift memories_ to take advantage of me.”

“I’m hardly taking advantage of you, Geiszler.” Hermann pointedly glances down at the hand Newt has settled absentmindedly on his thigh. “Besides, I am literally incapable of _not_ recalling your memories.”

Newt huffs. “Fine, then,” he says, and then scrapes his fingernails along Hermann’s spine in exactly the way Hermann likes it.

The reaction is incredibly satisfying: Hermann shivers noticeably, and exhales in a small “ _hah_ ” before he can stop himself. Newt grins.

“Bastard,” Hermann hisses, and then they are kissing again, and Newt is sucking at Hermann’s lower lip the way he knows makes Hermann squirm, and Hermann’s long, excellent fingers are pressed against his ass. Newton realizes, suddenly, that the drift has made Hermann an extremely likely candidate for _Best Fuck of All Time._

Newt has barely formed the thought when Hermann is pulling away. His lips are red and wet, his face flushed.

“I am not… continuing this… in a public kitchen,” he points out.

“I’ll blow you,” Newt says.

The words are out of his mouth before he really considers them, but Hermann’s eyes instantly pop.

“You… what?”

“Yeah,” Newt confirms, running with the idea. He reaches for Hermann’s belt buckle. Hermann lets him, staring down at Newt’s hands as though not quite sure what to make of them.

Newt slides off of the countertop, wobbling just a bit as he settles on his knees. “…damn, the counter’s too tall, dude. You’re gonna have to stand.” He pauses, suddenly uncertain. “If that’s, you know, feasible. We could probably find a chair, or something-”

Newt cuts himself off as Hermann gets to his feet, clutching the countertop with both hands for support.

“It’s fine,” he says, his voice low and gruff, and Newt’s dick twitches with great interest.

“Right,” Newt says, “Okay then.” He reaches forward and tugs Hermann’s fly down, then smooths his palm over Hermann’s stomach, hips, palms his dick through his boxers. Hermann’s hips twitch slightly, and Newt smirks.

“Insufferable,” Hermann mutters, though the effect is slightly ruined by his breathlessness. Newt’s grin widens as he tugs down Hermann’s boxers. Despite the fact that he already technically knows what Hermann’s dick looks like, thanks to drift memories and all, Newt takes a moment to stare at the sight of him. Hermann is already hard, and his hands, where they still clutch the countertop, are shaking. Newt wraps a hand around Hermann’s base and leans forward.

“ _Ah,_ ” Hermann hisses, as Newt’s lips slide over his head.

The moment Newt makes contact, he feels half-drowned in memories. Some his own and some Hermann’s, mixing together nauseatingly. He can’t remember which of them it was who read the final Harry Potter book in one sitting, under a blanket with a flashlight clutched in sweaty palm. Newt can’t tell which of them got fucked for the first time in an empty dorm room with their own palm muffling their cries. He can’t remember which of them loves chocolate chip bagels, or who fell in love first. Who was the first to look across the lab and take comfort in just the presence of another person who, almost, understood.

There’s no pattern, no order, to the sequence of memories. Maybe that wouldn’t even bother Newt so much before Hermann’s goddamn anal mindset took up residence in his head. Newt feels overwhelmed, dizzy, and suddenly he can’t do it- he’s gagging on Hermann’s dick, nearly vomiting. He leans back, gasping for breath. Tears prick the corners of his eyes, and _fuck no,_ that is not happening. He is not going to freak out over this. He’s sucked cock before, goddammit. He’s _good at this._

Newt takes a slightly shaky breath, but before he can say anything, Hermann’s hand is in his hair. He strokes, slow, almost combing it.

“Newton,” he says, and his voice is _so gentle_ that Newt wants to shrivel up into himself.

“S’fine,” Newt manages. He doesn’t want Hermann’s worry, or his pity, or his stupid soft voice. He just… he mostly just wants to not freak out, honestly. He wants to stop thinking.

Okay, that is a goal. Stop thinking. Newt takes another shaky breath. Don’t think. Just do. Actions, one after another. A procedure.

Step 1: Start sucking Hermann’s cock.

Okay, he can do that. Really. He won’t gag this time. He’s good at sucking cock. Great, actually, or so previous partners had said.

Newt slides his lips over the tip again, and though his throat tightens slightly, he doesn’t choke. Great. Gold star.

Next step. Do something, do _something._ Newt twirls his tongue around the head of Hermann’s dick in that way he knows- from some vague memory of a 22nd birthday- drives Hermann mad.

A third step, then a fourth.

Newt keeps going, forcing himself to focus on the steady bob of his own head, of the taste of Hermann on his tongue. He knows for a fact it isn’t his best work. He can’t force himself to take more than the tip of Hermann’s cock into his mouth without gagging, but, still. It’s something. It’s enough.

At some point Hermann’s hand has gone taut in his hair, and Newt hums encouragement. He picks up his pace, moving faster, and Hermann’s hips tremble under his touch.

“Newton,” he hisses, the tug in Newt’s hair turning into a painful yank. “Newton, fuck, _Newt-”_

Newt doesn’t pull away as Hermann shudders, his hands scrabbling for something to hold onto. For a long, silent moment, Newt swears he can feel Hermann’s stuttering heartbeat in his own chest.

Then Hermann is sagging back against the countertop and Newt is doing his best to lick his lips clean and _not throw up, do not fucking throw up_ as he rebuttons Hermann’s pants for him. Newt’s knees ache from kneeling, his jaw is sore and his head still pounds, but this is the clearest his mind has felt all day.

Hermann sinks to the ground slowly, shakily, until his face is level with Newt’s.

“You are…” he halts awkwardly. “Newton, you’re…”

“Excellent at giving head?” Newt grins, weakly. He honestly is great at it. He’ll prove that some other time. Assuming there is another time. “Yeah, I kind of guessed that from the screaming.”

“I was not _screaming,_ ” Hermann says, and he scoffs, but the awkward tension is broken. Suddenly they are just bickering lab partners again. It’s familiar, and somehow unchanged despite all the new touches. Newt leans into Hermann’s arms.

“You kind of were,” he says, tucking his head under Hermann’s chin.

“Blatant lies,” Hermann replies. After a hesitant second, he smooths a hand through Newt’s hair. They are silent a long moment. Newt can finally feel the exhaustion of the day catching up to him, and for once he’s content to sit in silence. Faintly, he can just make out the thrumming baseline from the party. Still in full swing, surely, but it felt a million miles away.

For the first time in Newt’s memory, Hermann is the one to break the silence. “I just realized I’ve been terribly inconsiderate.” His voice is soft again, but not pitying. Just gentle.

“You’re terribly inconsiderate two-hundred-percent of the time,” Newt says, and he meant it to sound witty and snappish. Instead it comes out somewhere between drunken slurring and a sleepy mumble.

Still, Hermann ignores him. “I haven’t… taken care of you yet,” he insists.

For a moment, Newt has no idea what he means. The words “ _you’re taking care of me right now”_ are on the tip of his tongue. Hermann has been taking care of him for years, in his own way. A coat thrown over his sleeping shoulders, a cup of water shoved into his shaky, post-drift hands. Just like Newt has taken care of Hermann, in the form of coffee cups and surreptitiously edited reports. When they aren’t self-destructing loudly, their relationship is honestly pretty… great.

It isn’t until Newt feels Hermann’s hand move to his thigh that he realizes Hermann’s actual meaning, and instantly bites his tongue. Wow. Way to jump to the cheesiest possible meaning.

“Um,” Newt says, forcing his mind to change tracks. “Well, now you mention it. That would be pretty awesome, actually, if you- _oh._ ”

Hermann’s hand slides over Newt’s jeans, and Newt’s mind has definitely jumped tracks. Extremely quickly.

Hermann rubs at him again, and then somehow manages to pop the button on his jeans in a single smooth, one-handed motion.

“I am incredibly jealous of your button-popping abilities,” Newt babbles, and he can hear his own voice becoming more breathless by the moment. It should be embarrassing, but somehow he can’t stop talking. “Like, how the hell did you learn how to do that, man? I guess I don’t actually need to ask, because technically I could just remember that if I thought about it hard enough. But that takes, you know, concentration and stuff, and it’s kind of hard to think clearly when you’re- when you’re, uh-”

“Please do both of us a favor and shut up,” Hermann says calmly, his hand sliding under Newt’s waistband.

“Yeah, okay,” Newt swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “That is probably a good idea, and, _shit,_ that feels good.” Newt bucks involuntarily into Hermann’s hand. Hermann strokes him, slowly, teasingly.

“Holy hell,” Newt continues, and _why the hell can’t he just shut up,_ “that is. Um. Okay, I’m really bad at forming sentences when you are, ah. I think it’s maybe because all of my blood is in my dick and not my brain? I mean, obviously not _all_ of my blood, you know, hyperbole, but _oh fuck that’s good_.”

“ _Quiet_ , Geiszler,” Hermann says, and it is really very unfair how steady his voice is. Newt does want to be quiet, really, but…

“You’re still doing that thing where you call me by my last name? _Still?”_ Newt squirms under Hermann’s touch. Goddammit, it’s only a fucking handjob but even that feels like _too much_. _“_ We literally know each other better than anyone on the planet- _ahh-_ and your hand is down my goddamn pants and you _still_ can’t-”

Hermann’s free hand is suddenly covering Newt’s lips, and Newt gasps before he can stop himself. His cock twitches in Hermann’s fist.

“Quiet,” Hermann repeats, his lips against Newt’s ear. Newt can only nod. Hermann smirks and continues to move, stroking Newt long and slow. Newt squirms again, clutching to fistfuls of Hermann’s godawful sweater. For a moment, he almost feels as though he has control of himself, but then Hermann slides his thumb over the head and Newt lets out a noise that _definitely wasn’t_ a whimper.

That only seems to encourage Hermann’s teasing, because he slows the pace even more, and Newt can’t do it. He can’t, he can’t, the entire day- the past decade- has just been fighting and fighting and fighting and he can’t do it anymore.

“Hermann,” Newt half-sobs. Hermann’s palm against his mouth is warm, stifling, and it is too much, too much. “Hermann, don’t, please just-”

Somehow, Hermann gets the message. He moves his hand from Newt’s mouth and goes back to smoothing through his hair, almost combing it. His other hand picks up the pace, jerking Newt off with quick, efficient strokes, and _yes._

“It’s alright,” Hermann says, his lips pressed against Newt’s temple. “It’s alright, Newton, it’s-”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Newt says, and for a moment everything goes white. His mind is entirely blank, and it is almost perfect.

Then he is back, slumped panting in Hermann’s arms. Hermann’s hand is still combing through his hair. Semen splatters the front of his already-filthy shirt, and every bone in his body aches.

“Ew,” Newt manages, glaring at Hermann. This is at least partly his fault.

“The shirt was a lost cause to begin with,” Hermann shrugs, not sounding at all sorry.

“Your entire wardrobe is a lost cause,” Newt retorts, and then yawns. “Man, I dunno about you, but I am nine kinds of exhausted. Think I’m gonna call it a night.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s the only sensible thing you’ve said in the past fourty-eight hours.”

Newt rolls his eyes, but holds out a hand to help Hermann to his feet. Hermann takes it with only a moment of hesitation.

They wander their way back to the barracks together, neither saying much. Newt is a miserable mix of exhausted and jittery. The closer he gets to his room- cramped, quiet, empty- the more he dreads it. He’s been fighting off the whispers of the kaiju for hours, using the noise of the party, the comfort of alcohol, the distraction of Hermann’s words and hands. His room has no such things.

By the time they reach Hermann’s door, Newt has decided he’ll just head back to the kitchens. Eat something for the first time in who-knows-how-long. Drink more, try and find someone to talk to. Sleep only once he’s tired enough to collapse into a dreamless coma.

However, Newt doesn’t even get the chance. Hermann unlocks the door to his room, but pauses in the doorway. Newt raises an eyebrow at him.

“I think,” Hermann says, and his voice is uncertain, “that, given the lack of safety procedures involved in the kaiju drift, and the fact that both of us have experienced severe neural trauma, it would be… unsafe, if we were to sleep alone.”

Newt stares at him for a long moment. Hermann won’t meet his eyes, his knuckles white on the doorknob.

The ‘for safety’ excuse is total bullshit, and Newt knows it, and Hermann _knows_ Newt knows it. On any other day, Newt would laugh, would make some quip, they’d argue, Hermann would shout.

But they are tired. The apocalypse is over, and their brains are broken in ways they can’t yet define.

So Newt just nods, silent, and follows Hermann inside. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, life's been nuts. Still going to finish this thing!  
> Thanks to Liam, for being awake at four in the morning, and Annie, for being a good enough friend to offer to edit my porn.

 

5.

 

The next several weeks are busy.

Not as busy as before the breach closed, of course. There are no more do-or-die deadlines, no more panic, no more constant adrenaline rushes. The entire mood of the Shatterdome is different, simultaneously uplifted and melancholy. Everyone feels the relief of the end of the apocalypse, but the empty jaegar hangars do not go unnoticed. On the rare occasion Hermann ventures from the lab, he finds the once-bustling hallways unnervingly quiet.

The regular staff begin to trickle away, slowly replaced by construction crews and gaggles of important men in suits, who hold numerous conferences in the quarters that were once Pentecost’s. The first unit to disappear entirely is the Jumphawks, quietly absorbed back into the international air force. Then go the technicians, and then the rest of the staff, one by one. A constant flow of trucks shuttle millions of dollars of equipment away from the dome. Relocation, reconstruction, restarting.

If Hermann is being honest with himself, the entire ordeal terrifies him. In several months, the Shatterdome will be a husk- or, more likely, converted into a shopping mall or apartments. And then what? Then _what if?_

The breach is gone, of course. Destroyed entirely. Every instrument they have confirms, and even now there is a skeleton crew left to keep an eye on it. But there will never be 100% certainty, not as long as they still don’t understand how the breach was opened in the first place. They will never be entirely safe.

Even as the Shatterdome shuts down, the K-Science lab, as always, putters on. There is still plenty to do among worn chalkboards and quickly-aging specimens. Reports that were previously shoved aside due to time crunches can now be written. Years of data to analyze, months of overdue budgets to submit. Hermann wipes his chalkboards entirely clean for the first time in years, and it feels symbolic.

He is almost busy enough to avoid thinking about the drift.

Almost.

 

Things are different between them.

The breach has been closed for twenty-seven days when the realization of how much has changed hits Hermann. It is early morning, and he lies flat on his back in bed, achingly aware of the empty space in the sheets beside him. Attempting not to inhale, for fear of breathing in Newt’s lingering scent. He’d been there, just hours before. The pillow is still warm.

Over the past several weeks, it has become a routine. Predictable. Each night, Newt crawls into bed with him, curls into the coarse blankets, leaves his smell and warmth behind as if to taunt Hermann. They always make excuses, for themselves and for each other. As if it will stop being strange if they pretend it’s just a fluke. Newt has conveniently lost his room key on three separate occasions.

But the end result is always the same. They lie together on Hermann’s bed, stiff and awkward. The mattress is really too small for two grown men, and the confined space forces their sides to press together. Otherwise, they do not touch. It takes Hermann hours to fall asleep, lying in the darkness listening to Newt’s soft breaths. Sometimes he mumbles in his sleep, agitated, and kicks at the sheets as if running.

Each morning, Hermann wakes alone.

It really shouldn’t be surprising anymore, Hermann reasons. He should be used to waking with an empty, still-warm space beside him. His stomach should stop lurching every time Newt meets his eyes across the lab, only to quickly look away. He should be adapting. Accepting. That’s what humans do, that’s what everything does, there was that thing with Darwin and the finches-

Hermann pushes Newt to the back of his mind and forces himself to rise from the bed. His leg burns quietly today, and he scowls all the way to breakfast.

 

The ghost drifting effects make themselves known slowly. Small things, insignificant moments. Barely worth notice.

But Hermann notices.

He is halfway through writing an equation when he remembers that he is not, in fact, left handed. He catches himself drumming his fingers against a countertop, or humming along to the radio that Newt still insists on playing. One time Newt comes back from the bathroom to find Hermann staring, entirely entranced, at a tissue sample.

_The epithelium, though._

Though Newt never mentions it, Hermann can see the ghost drifting affecting him as well. His side of the lab becomes marginally more organized. Still cluttered, still horribly unsanitary, but now the various organs are strewn across the room _in alphabetical order._ Newt starts using less product in his hair, stops rolling up his shirtsleeves. Even is gait changes, noticeably favoring one leg over the other.

Hermann feels a little bit guilty about that.

They don’t argue as much, but they don’t talk as much, either. Half the time Hermann can guess what Newt is about to say before he even opens his mouth. He’s taken to consciously _not_ anticipating anything Newt does, but apparently, Newt has taken no such measures.

Hermann walks into the lab, on the morning of the twenty-seventh day, to find Newt half-hidden behind stacks of paperwork. His fingers twitch delicately across the computer display, modeling something complex and inhuman that looks a little bit like a femur.

“Newton,” Hermann begins. “I think-”

“I know we should talk about it,” Newt mutters, absentmindedly, and Hermann is far too tired to deal with this.

“Then let’s,” he insists, crossing to Newt’s side of the lab and leaning against his desk.

“You know what I’m thinking already,” Newt insists. His eyes flick up to meet Hermann’s, yet his fingers don’t even pause, the showoff.

“A single drift does not negate all need for conversation,” Hermann insists. “In fact, jaeger pilots are trained to discuss their thoughts aloud. It clarifies matters for both parties.”

Newt says nothing, just goes back to modeling his femur.

 _The fovea capitis looks kinda off,_ thinks Hermann, and his internal monologue sounds concerningly Newt-esque.

He really can’t take this any longer.

Hermann takes hold of the back of Newt’s chair, swiveling him around until they are face to face. Newt squawks indignantly.

“We have plenty of matters to clarify, Newton.”

Hermann’s voice is ice, and Newt seems to recognize defeat. He slumps in his chair. “Okay, okay, fine. What is it?”

Hermann’s ears redden. “You _know_ what the problem is.” He had really been hoping Newt would be the one to breach the topic, but apparently not. “The fact is that you’ve been sleeping in my bed every night for the past four weeks. We’ve barely spoken a word during that time aside from absolute necessity, and you’ve jumped through numerous hoops to justify this behavior.”

“Excuse me, _who’s_ the one justifying things? If I remember right, you were the one who _lost-_ “ Newt makes dramatic air-quotes- “your cane last week and _desperately_ needed someone to walk you back to your room. And to your bed.”

Hermann sputters indignantly, while Newt just oozes even lower in his chair, as if determined to show via body language just how little he thinks of the conversation.

At last, Hermann rubs an annoyed hand over his eyes. “I… I am not exempting myself. I would just like to clarify what exactly we…” He loses his nerve halfway through the sentence. “…the nature of this arrangement.”

“Do you honestly think it’ll help if I spell this out?” Newt’s head is at roughly the same elevation as his knees. “I swear to god, Hermann, sometimes… look, we’re dealing with a pretty classic situation right now. We are both seriously mentally and emotionally compromised, we probably have some form of PTSD, our main topic of study literally just _disappeared forever_. Not to mention that we have pretty much nobody else we can talk to or relate to about this, because we are the only people on earth who were stone-cold _badass_ enough to share our brains with _actual monsters._ It’s a situation neither of us know how to deal with, so we’re relying on classic coping mechanisms. Seeking out physical closeness, not wanting to sleep alone, while simultaneously withdrawing ourselves from emotional contact. This shit is textbook.”

It is both exactly what Hermann had hoped and feared to hear. Yes, of course that was why they were sharing a bed. Coping mechanisms. Fear of loneliness, fear of time to think. There was nothing deeper to it than that.

Of course there wasn’t.

Hermann realizes he should probably say something.

“I just wanted to ensure we were of… similar mindset,” he says, stiffly. Newt doesn’t even look at him, already swiveling his chair back to his keyboard. Hermann stares at the back of his head and says nothing.

That night, Newt is once again at Hermann’s door.

 

The following Monday, Herc Hansen shows his face in the K-Science labs.

“Oh, good,” he says, as he picks his way through the clutter. “You’re both here.”

 The day is still young by normal standards, but Hermann is yet to adjust back to a regular sleep schedule, and Hermann doubts Newt has _ever_ had a regular sleep schedule.  
“Marshall,” Hermann says, setting his chalk down. He salutes automatically, remembering a few months ago when he used to have trouble telling which Hansen was father and which was son. Herc seems to have aged a decade in a matter of weeks. He is noticeably thinner, paler, with bags under his eyes that give him a doggish look. Hermann feels a rush of empathy.

Hansen nods at Hermann, then clears his throat. “I’m here on business, boys. We’re starting the final shutdown of the ‘dome. Clearing out the old staff to make way for the deconstruction crew. Decomissions are going to be happening all next week, by the end of the month there’ll just be a permanent skeleton crew left on. I wanted to give you two a warning so you can have time to get your things together, figure out where to go. I’m pretty sure both of you are nominated for dozens of awards, as soon as they set all that up again, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding employment.”

Hermann knows for a fact Hansen is right. Already he has deleted several emails offering him privatized positions. The only offers he’s kept are the ones for academic positions, and even those he’s left unanswered.

Silence stretches through the lab for a moment. Newt isn’t even looking at Hansen, sitting stiffly in his chair with his hands clenched on his knees.

“Thank you,” Hermann says at last, because _someone_ has to say _something_. Newt remains eerily silent. Hansen seems to notice this, and directs his next words in Newt’s direction.

“Afraid most of the samples have got to stay under PPDC ownership. There might be paperwork of some kind you could do, try to get a hold of them, but who knows. We can figure that out later, though.”

Newt remains silent, staring blankly past him. Hansen gives Hermann a mildly concerned look. Hermann can only shrug.

“Well,” Hansen says, obviously uncomfortable. “Just let me know when you guys are ready to get out of here, I’ll send all the forms you’ll need later today.”

“Thank you, Marshall.” Hermann salutes again as Hansen leaves, the lab doors clanging shut behind him. It isn’t until his footsteps have faded down the hall that Hermann whirls on Newt.

“What the bloody hell was that all about?”

Newt’s eyes finally refocus, blinking at Hermann vacantly. “Nothing, nothing, sorry.” His voice is strange and stiff. “Just zoned out for a minute. I should really grab a coffee or something. How much do you think sleep deprivation carries over? Because I’m probably behind on, like, years at this point. I should just hibernate for a while and get myself all reset, you know?”

Hermann just arcs an eyebrow. Even if he hadn’t been inside Newt’s head, he would have been able to identify the tense twist to Newt’s lips a mile away.

“Of course,” Newt barks a fake laugh, “we both know I’d never do that. Hibernate, I mean. Way too boring. I’d be ok with the part where I double my body mass beforehand, though, I could just-”

“I have received several offers to universities, you know,” Hermann cuts in. “I’m certain you have, or will, receive similar ones. Perhaps we could even-”

Newt is out of his chair before Hermann can finish the sentence, striding toward the door in the gait of a man trying very hard to resist running.

“Speaking of gaining body mass, I’m gonna go grab some breakfast!” He calls, his voice high-pitched and a bit hysterical. “Talk to you later! Or something! Bye!”

Hermann opens his mouth to respond, but his mind is blank. He just stands in the middle of the lab, arms dangling uselessly at his sides.

Newt doesn’t slam the door on the way out, and somehow that’s worse.

 

Newt doesn’t return to the lab for the rest of the day. Hermann feels restless, jumping from one project to another, taking unnecessary trips to the coffee machine just for the feeling of doing _something_. He rereads his various job offers again and again, but each time closes them without typing a word. He skips lunch, and by the time evening rolls around, he feels exhausted and vaguely ill.

He forces himself to stay in the lab until eleven, making fairly unnecessary edits to fairly unnecessary reports. He gives up when he realizes he’s been retyping the same paragraph for over an hour. It’s clear no more work is getting done tonight.

Hermann troops to the mess hall and forces himself to consume at least a few calories, though his appetite is nonexistent. Feeling less shaky, but vaguely nauseated, he walks back to his room, takes a shower and his medications. He even does a few stretches, something he has been neglecting terribly ever since the apocalypse began. No wonder his leg is so stiff these days.

At last, Hermann settles down into bed. He doesn’t think about the empty space beside him, or how the pillow still smells like Newt’s shampoo, his breath, his skin. He definitely doesn’t wait for a knock on his door.

He had forgotten how quiet his room could be when nobody else was there.

 

It takes Hermann three and a half hours to admit defeat.

He sits up in bed with a miserable huff. He is stiff and cold and frustrated, and farther from sleep than he has ever been in his life.

Sod it. He can go back to the lab. He’ll do some paperwork he’s been meaning to get to, maybe tidy a bit.

He will not go to Newt’s room. That would be stupid and pathetic and _codependent,_ and Hermann Gottlieb is dependent on nobody.

He slips his shoes back on and shuffles down to the lab, wishing for the millionth time that the barracks and the science department could be on the same floor. However, the moment Hermann opens the lab doors, he can sense someone else in the room.

“Hello?” He calls.

He’s greeted with muffled sniffling and a sharp intake of breath.

Hermann frowns, shuffling forward as silently as he’s able to, given his cane. The overhead lights of the lab are still off, the way he had left them. Standby lights from the various screens and machines around the room provide barely enough of a glow to see by.

Still, it doesn’t take Hermann long to track down the source of the noise. It’s Newt. Of course. Who else would it be?

He’s huddled half-underneath his own desk, knees pulled up to his chin. His face is blotchy and red, glasses on the floor beside him. When Hermann comes into view, Newt hurriedly wipes his face in his hands.

Hermann is entirely at a loss of what to do. “…Newt?”

“Sup,” Newt says, giving the fakest grin Hermann has ever seen. “Sorry, I j-just. Um. I probably should’ve said hi when I heard you come in, huh?” He grins again, wide and watery and painful-looking. “Did I freak you out? Did you think it was some kind of kaiju ghost? Back from the grave, to haunt-”

“What are you doing here?” Hermann asks, because he has no idea how to even bring up the other questions he has. Questions like _why are you crying,_ or _why can’t I fall asleep without you beside me,_ or _why do I find the sight of you sobbing under a desk heart-wrenching rather than ridiculous?_

“Okay, to be honest,” Newt procures a large, half-filled bottle of champagne from behind his back. “I’m a little bit drunk.”

“That does exactly nothing to answer my question,” Hermann points out. He lowers himself to the floor, awkwardly. His leg is doing him no favors today. Newt watches him silently settle himself.

“Am I not allowed to get drunk on the floor of my own lab?” Newt says at last, when Hermann has propped himself up against the desk. “Also, did you know that there’s somehow alcohol left over from the end-of-the-end-of-the-world party a few weeks ago? I know, I thought they’d drunk Hong Kong dry. But I found this in a storage closet. Like, not even a storage closet for food. It was full of mops, mostly. I guess someone was saving it for later.”

“Why were you in a storage closet for mops?” Hermann says, then grimaces inwardly. He’s asking useless questions, not the ones he actually wants an answer to. But maybe it doesn’t matter much what he asks, because Newt ignores the question anyway.

“I can’t be drunk alone,” he says firmly, passing the bottle to Hermann. “I’m not a champagne expert but I’m pretty sure this is expensive. It looks expensive. It tastes okay, too.”

Hermann sighs. “Newton, this is not…”

But he runs out of words then, because Newt is still attempting to sniffle in a way that won’t make it obvious he’s recently been crying. When he holds out the bottle to Hermann, his hand shakes in a manner that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

Hermann’s chest aches in a way he absolutely despises. He takes the bottle of champagne and drinks, deeply and silently.

They sit in quiet for a while then, passing the bottle back and forth in a way that feels far too familiar.

“This is not healthy,” Hermann says at last.

“We don’t drink that often,” Newt retorts, not needing Hermann to specify. Damned ghost-drifting. “I can count the number of times I’ve seen you drunk on one hand. Anyway, right now is a special circumstance. Alcohol is pretty warranted.”

“What exactly warrants alcohol?” Hermann demands, passing the bottle back to Newt. “The world is no longer ending, and we’ve both done great things. If anything, now should be one of the more stress-free times in our lives.”

Newt snorts, finally meeting Hermann’s eyes. “It isn’t, though, is it?”

Hermann can’t argue with that.

He refuses to let the silence drag on forever, though. The air feels heavy with unsaid words. Hermann takes a moment to wish the champagne would work faster before he tentatively opens his mouth.

“Before I came here, I was attempting to sleep,” he begins, halting. He has no idea where he’s going with this, but his heart is pounding and he isn’t sure why. “Only to find that I could not. Evidently, over the past several weeks, I have allowed myself to grow… accustomed to your presence.” His palms are sweaty, but he can’t stop now. “While not surprising, this is a concerning development, because it suggests a level of dependency on each other that is not altogether healthy. Nor is it sustainable, assuming we both intend to move on from PPDC employment to other things.”

For a long moment, Newt says nothing, and Hermann feels the beginning of panic in his throat.

“Newton.”

Nothing.  
“Newton, dammit, say something.”

Newt clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m not sure if you’re asking me to sleep with you, or if you’re trying to break up with me.”

“I’m not entirely sure either,” Hermann admits. “Though I don’t believe I can break up with you, given the fact we have never been dating.”

“True.” Newt pauses again to take a deep swig. “We should go out sometime, dude.”

Hermann stares, attempting to ascertain whether or not Newt is joking. Newt just blinks owlishly back at him.

“You’re asking me on a date?”

“…Yes?”

Hermann stares for another long moment.

“I…. alright? Yes.”

“Cool.” Newt’s smile is small, but genuine. “I’m sure there’s some decent not-destroyed restaurants around here somewhere. I’ll ask Tendo. What do you think the date etiquette would be for us, by the way? We can’t really save kissing for the second one, since I’ve already kind of had your dick in my mouth.”

Hermann splutters at that, and Newt snickers.

“We might not have a chance to go out at all,” Hermann points out. “Not in Hong Kong, anyway. Hansen wants us to leave as soon as possible.”

Hermann instantly regrets his words. Newt’s face crumples like a paper wad, curling back into himself.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Newt mutters. “I didn’t think- you know what, forget it. That was dumb. That was really stupid. I’m drunk. Don’t even listen to me.”

“Not that stupid,” Hermann insists. “And you aren’t that drunk.”

Newt says nothing, just stares at his feet. The sight of him makes Hermann’s chest burn, emotion overstepping its boundaries and crossing into physical pain.

It takes Hermann a while to realize that Newt is making muffled sniffling sounds once more.

“Sorry,” Newt hisses at last, voice thick. “Fuck, this is so- I haven’t cried since I was, like, twelve, what the hell.”

Hermann knows for a fact that’s a lie- a hazy memory of Newt’s first rejected paper floats to the front of his mind- but says nothing. “Newton, it’s-”

“It’s just that it’s over, you know?” Newt wipes his nose on his shirtsleeve, and Hermann does his best not to cringe. “I mean. This was pretty much my whole life, dude. Before kaiju, I did stuff, but not _real_ stuff. If someone asked me to describe my life, I would tell them I’m an awesome kaiju scientist. I’m _the_ awesome kaiju scientist. I kind of assumed-” Newt pauses, sobs punctuating his words. “I assumed that’s what I’d always do. That either the kaiju would fuck up everything and the world would end, or I’d die saving everyone. Like a fucking science Rambo.”

Hermann can say nothing. His stomach is a twisted knot, emotions that aren’t entirely his own flooding his mind. For a few moments, Newt is silent except for hiccupping sobs.

“But that didn’t happen. I’m still alive.” His voice is so quiet Hermann can hardly hear him. “…I probably would’ve died, in that second drift. If it weren’t for you.”

“You would not have died,” Hermann insists, though he has no idea if that’s true. Maybe not dead, but terribly broken? Maybe. Likely.

As it is, they are still damaged. Both of them. Perhaps irreparably.

“Now it’s over, Hermann. The kaiju are gone, the jaegers are gone, everything’s gone. In a couple weeks you’re gonna be gone and I’m gonna be gone and you’ll be the uptight professor you’ve always wanted to be, your grad students are gonna _hate_ you, it’s so fucking perfect-”

“Stop,” Hermann says, and he sounds desperate. Tears are rolling down Newt’s cheeks, and Hermann can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t. He reaches out and takes Newt’s hand before he can think. “Newton, I’m not going. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip on Newt’s hand is crushingly tight, but he cannot force himself to loosen it. Everything is so close to slipping away. So close. Hermann can’t do it alone, but he doesn’t have the words for this.

“I’m staying, Newt, do you understand? I’m not leaving. You’re not leaving. They can’t make us leave.”

“Okay,” Newt says at last, still quiet. He leans in, knocks his forehead against Hermann’s. “…I’m… yeah. Okay.”

Hermann feels tears running down his own cheeks, and he makes a choked sound, half laugh, half sob.

“We’re going to apply for positions together,” he insists, cupping Newt’s face in his hands. “We can go anywhere. Cambridge, Princeton.”

“Chicago,” Newt insists. “California.”

“California has barely existed for the past three years,” Hermann points out.

“We’ll make it exist. Crowds will flock to our academic prowess.”

Hermann huffs a laugh despite himself, and Newt pulls back a bit with a smile. His eyes are watery, his face still splotchy-red. He’s the most beautiful thing Hermann has ever seen.

Hermann wants to tell him this, but instead he says “were you actually in the lab for a reason?”

“Other than for a place to drink in silence? Nah.” Newt waves a vague hand. “I dunno, I was feeling sentimental.”

Hermann bites back the urge to ask if Newt always drinks champagne under desks when he gets sentimental. Instead he just hauls himself to his feet, stiff and a bit awkwardly, and holds out a hand for Newt.

“Let’s go to bed.”

Newt takes his hand, and doesn’t let go of it all the way back to the barracks.

 

This time, when they lie together on Newt’s narrow bed, they touch.

Newt presses up against Hermann, chest to chest as though trying to fuse their bodies together, and Hermann still holds him too tightly. Newt is warm and his hair is soft against Hermann’s cheek, and it is almost too easy for Hermann to tease his fingertips under the hem of Newt’s shirt.

Newt squirms, hiding his smile against Hermann’s skin.

“Jeez. I thought you wanted to go to bed.”

“We are currently in bed,” Hermann points out, sliding his hands higher. It isn’t even because he wants sex, not really. He just needs to touch Newt, to feel his skin and his warmth and the stuttering beat of his heart.

“You know what I mean.” Newt squirms again, but this time it’s with purpose. His leg slides in between Hermann’s thighs in a way that puts friction in all the right places.

Alright, maybe it’s a little bit because he wants sex.

The mood is different than anything Hermann has ever felt before. Every motion feels world-changing, every exhale moves mountains. Hermann wants to catalogue it all, record it for posterity, the way Newt’s breath hitches when Hermann runs fingers over his hips. The way his heart stutters against his ribcage. It’s not _fooling around,_ the way it was the last few times. It’s… important.

“I meant what I said,” Hermann says suddenly, as Newt sucks bruises into his collarbones. This isn’t the time or the place, but the words too heavy to be contained any longer. “About staying.”

“I know,” Newt says, breathless and quiet and _god,_ he’s… he’s everything, he’s all Hermann has and all he needs and _ugh_ , he’s done for. It’s unhealthy, it’s codependent, it goes against everything Hermann ever told himself he wanted. But half-tangled together under the covers, more whole than Hermann has ever felt, he literally cannot imagine any other scenario.

“Newt,” he whispers. Newt kisses all of the breath from his lungs.

 

They take their time, and Hermann is fine with that. He kisses Newt until his lips are sore, until he’s sure he’s touched every inch of Newt’s chest, back, arms. There are callouses on his fingertips and freckles hidden underneath his tattoos, splattered over his shoulders like woodstain. Hidden under the ink, invisible to a casual observer.

Hermann has always been excellent at observing.

Clothes are shed slowly as their hands become more daring. The progression is so gradual that Hermann is almost shocked when he finds himself with his face pressed into Newt’s neck, Newt’s hand around both of their cocks, stroking slowly. He honestly can’t remember when his pants were removed, or where they've gone. He really does not care even a little bit.

Hermann just clings to Newt, unashamed, wraps them as closely together as he possibly can with legs that are too gangly and arms that are too brittle. He closes his eyes, narrows his focus until all he can feel is the rise and fall of Newt’s chest and the hand stroking him. Firm and steady, faster, faster-

“Stop _, stop!_ ” Hermann half-cries, and Newt freezes entirely. The room is silent except for their slightly ragged breaths.

“Is something-?” Newt begins, but Hermann cuts him off.

“No, no, it’s fantastic. It’s just… I thought we could- I would like to…”

Thankfully, Newt understands his babbling- whether it’s thanks to the drift or just years of working in the same room, Hermann can’t say. A grin splits Newt’s face.

“Yes. _Yes_ , we can totally- holy shit, okay, don’t move, I’ve got condoms around here somewhere.”

Hermann lies back and watches in bemusement as Newt scrambles from the bed, the strangely intense mood shattered. Suddenly it’s just like it always was, Newt wobbling around the room with too-quick movements and his too-loud voice. The only difference is that he’s entirely naked, and that Hermann’s cock is hot and straining against his own stomach.

Really, it’s not that large of a change.

Newt digs condoms and bottle of lube out from the bottom drawer of his dresser, brandishing them in the air with a triumphant cheer. Hermann isn’t sure whether to stare at his absurdly unclothed state, or to hide his face in embarrassment. He settles for both, peering through his fingers as Newt picks his way back to the bed.

“Nudge over,” Newt says, kneeing him in the ribs.

“You are the poster boy of romance, Geisz- um, Newton.”

Newton blinks down at him, much the same way Hermann has seen him look at a particularly fascinating organ sample. He’s not quite sure he likes it.

“Give those to me,” Hermann snaps at last, sitting up and snatching the condoms from Newt’s hands. He rolls one onto himself deftly, doing his best to ignore Newt’s staring.

“So, uh,” Newt says. His voice is lower and hoarser than usual, and that particular fact sends blood straight to Hermann’s groin. “I am all for this idea, one hundred percent, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever approved of an idea more than I approve of this one right now. But I was just wondering, you know, how exactly are we gonna do this? Because your leg would make it kind of hard for you to-”

Hermann rolls his eyes and flops back onto the sheets, tugging Newt along by the wrists until the other man is settled on top of him. “Keep your weight on my good leg,” Hermann reminds. “I have, in fact, done this before.”

Newt just nods, scrambling to pick the lube off of the sheets and squeezing a generous amount onto his own palm.

“Right, um, I know that, duh. I never thought you were a virgin, you know. No matter how many kind-of-tasteless jokes I made, I always kind of assumed- I mean, for a while I was sure that you weren’t into dudes, at all, that was one of the main setbacks actually. I was like, what if this is Hermann’s version of experimenting in college? But then you kissed me on, like, four separate occasions, so I figured that if anything-”

Hermann steals the lube from Newt’s palm and rubs it onto his own hands, slicking his fingers quickly. He may not be as confident as Newt at most of these matters, but knows the motions. Newt’s voice falters slightly as Hermann’s hands find his ass.

“-um. Yeah, back to the topic at hand- uh, I don’t think you’ll have to use your fingers _too_ much, I mean, I’ve done this before, and as long as you’re slow- _fuck_.”

Hermann crooks his index finger inside Newt before quickly sliding in a second. He strokes Newt’s hips with his free hand, and can’t help but stare at the way Newt flushes when Hermann moves his fingers deeper.

“Okay,” Newt hisses, “I never thought you were a virgin but you are _surprisingly good_ at- at, shit, okay.”

Hermann slides a third finger inside, enjoying the way the tendons in Newt’s neck strain. “It isn’t that difficult, Newton. I’m not an idiot.”

“Noted,” Newt replies breathlessly, and Hermann slowly slides his fingers back out.

“Ready?”

“ _Fuck_ yes.”

Hermann quickly smears the last of the lube over his own cock, watching as Newt positions himself. Already the anticipation is making him shake, and it’s all he can do to remain still as Newt slowly lowers himself.

“Alright?” Hermann manages, and Newt nods. His eyes are squeezed shut and his lips pressed together, and Hermann pulls himself into a sitting position so that he can reach Newt’s lips.

Newt kisses back enthusiastically, waiting another moment before he starts to move. He bobs up and down, slow, and Hermann can’t help but moan into Newt’s mouth.

“Oh, bloody hell, Newt.”

“Yeah,” Newt agrees, pressing his face into Hermann’s hair. “I’m pretty sure we should have done this about a decade ago.”

“If not sooner,” Hermann agrees, securing his hands on Newt’s hips to guide him as the pace increases. It isn’t long before Hermann falls back onto the sheets, his fingers digging into Newt’s ass.

“Hermann,” Newt gasps, his own hands scrabbling across Hermann’s stomach and hips as he searches for a handhold. Hermann’s hip twinges in a way he knows he’s going to feel tomorrow, but honestly, fuck it. He reaches one hand up to wrap around Newt’s leaking cock, stroking in time to his thrusts.

“ _Ohgod,_ ” Newt chokes, and Hermann can feel Newt’s thighs trembling as the pace speeds up once more. “Oh, god, don’t stop- Hermann- _Hermann-_ “

Hermann just moves his hand even faster, the rhythm becoming somewhat erratic as Newt trembles and shakes. When he finally comes, it’s with a wordless shout, and he buckles forward as if trying to curl in on himself. Come spills over Hermann’s hand and stomach.

“ _Shit_ ,” Hermann hisses. He’s gasping so hard he feels like he might hyperventilate, his hips jerking upwards on their own volition. Newt’s weight on top of him is hot and smothering and _perfect._ “Shit, shit, _Newton._ ”

Hermann muffles his noises in Newt’s shoulder as he comes, hard and almost painful. Newt just clings to him, hot and sweat-damp, as they both catch their breath. Their panting fills the small room.

Eventually, the growing pain in Hermann’s leg prompts him to push Newt off, Newt flopping bonelessly onto the mattress. Hermann would be perfectly happy to lie there for the next several hours (days, or possibly months), but there are boring, unattractive necessities to fulfill. So instead Hermann disentangles himself and disposes of the condom, cleans himself off, and returns to the bed with tissues and Newt’s boxers.

“If you’re sleeping here, you require at least _some_ clothing.”

Newt opens his eyes reluctantly, squinting up at Hermann. Hermann makes a real effort to avoid staring, but… well. Newt is lying on his stomach, the curve of his spine sloping over his shoulder blades and dipping into the small of his back. He either doesn’t care that his ass is entirely bare and visible, hips still red from where Hermann gripped them, or it’s a purposeful display. Hermann’s leaning toward the latter.

“Pants later,” Newt mumbles, face pressed into the blankets and making him nearly unintelligible. “Sleep now.”

“I will throw you out of this bed _,_ Newton,” Hermann snaps, tossing the wad of tissues at Newt’s head. They bounce off uselessly. Newt groans in response.

“Dammit Hermann. You’re a dictator. You’re modern-day Brezhnev.”

“Not Lenin?”

“You aren’t that original.” Newt finally moves, rolling onto his side and curling into a fetal position. Hermann gently places the boxers on his face.

“Ughhhh,” Newton says, but finally moves to put them on. Hermann remains motionless until he is satisfied that the boxers are sufficiently in place.

“Was that really so difficult,” he says at last, climbing into bed and poking Newt in the ribs to get him to scoot over.

“It’s a matter of principle, dude.”

Hermann just hums in response, pulling Newt’s head closer until their bodies fit neatly together. He feels heavy with exhaustion and fuzzy with post-coital contentment. It’s the happiest he’s been in… far too long.

A year?

A decade?

His whole life?

The thought is both concerning and uplifting, but brings about all sorts of questions that Hermann doesn’t really want to consider at the moment. Instead he simply nestles against Newt’s warm skin, drowning his traitorous thoughts in the smell of Newt’s hair.

For a time, there is wonderful, soft silence.

Hermann sleeps.


End file.
